An End Comes To All
by IronMikeTyson
Summary: Book 4 style fic. First attempt at writing a story ever. Feinster marks the start of the Varden's end one way or another... PS: If you're going to read, then please don't judge the story by the first 8-9 or so chapters. I know they are very poor quality.
1. Chapter 1

**First attempt at writing a story. So it may suck BUT I have an excuse for that I'm quite young. Anyway this story may or may not be continued and I doubt that there will be any set update speed. Mainly because I am very busy: 4pm-7pm I go boxing and weightlifting. 9pm – 12 I go out again; you get the picture. So Yeah. One more thing Im a huge fan of Eminem and Hip Hop in general so the story may get a bit strange at points depending on what Im listening to: I plan on quoting Em a bit.**

"_Don't get me wrong, I love these ho's  
>It's no secret, everybody knows<br>Yeah we fucked, bitch so what, that's about as far as your buddy goes  
>We'll be friends, i'll call you again, i'll chase you around every bar you attend<br>Never know what kind of car i'll be in, we'll see how much you'll be partying then  
>You don't want that, neither do I, I don't want to flip when I see you with guys<br>Too much pride, between you and I  
>Not a jealous man, but females lie<br>But I guess that's just what sluts do, how could it ever be just us two  
>I'd never love you enough to trust you, we just met and I just fucked you..."<em> **Eminem, Superman. Man this part of the track cracks me up every time. Also my story uses a somewhat more mature Eragon than in the cycle. **

"_Does he purposefully ignore the substantial problems posed by the coming winter?"_ As Jörmundur continued his overlong speech to convince Nausuada that an advance was their best option.

Saphira gave a soft growl and said, _"It matters little to me, a little cold never harmed a dragon."_

Eragon grinned slightly at that, _"Unfortunately dragons are quite rare amongst the Varden's army" _

Amusements trickled across their link from Saphira; then a quiet yawn.

A loud bang marked the end of Jörmundur's harangue as he pounded his armoured fist into the table, as to emphasize his point. After a respectful wait Eragon stood.

"Jörmundur believe me; I understand where your confidence in our troops is coming from. But they are not capable of such a feat so soon after the siege of Feinster: they need a brief respite, also keep in mind the upcoming winter."

"_They are not the only ones in need of rest," _Saphira states humourlessly, her attention slipping.

Finished with is little tirade Eragon re-seated himself and waited for Jörmundur to reply. He was never given the chance. Nausuada placed one slim hand into the air: the signal for silence.

"Eragon is right: to a point, to advance upon Belatona after such a brief interval would result in our destruction ; however neither can we afford to tarry for too long, hmm...," her words trailed off as she thought up a remedy to their dilemma; then, at a length, she continued. "I propose a compromise: we rest here for three days than march upon Belatona with all due haste."

"_She completely ignored the changing of seasons!" _Eragon said to Saphira in outrage.

The room burst into a storm noise as each member of the council struggled to be heard. Nausuada again raised her hand and the shouting gradually faded.

"My order is final, you are all dismissed," and with that she stepped away from her seat and hurried, with great dignity, towards her personal chambers.

The abruptness of her exit surprised most at the meeting. Something was obviously wrong. But the steel in her voice had been clear; they all started to file out of the room. Eragon hung back from the crowd hoping to catch a word with Arya. However the princess in question was amongst the first to leave, gracefully slipping out of the door and disappearing amongst the shadows of the hallway; many eyes following her progress. She seemed tense; but then that was normal. Still doubt clung to Eragon: she didn't even look at him during the meeting, neither greeting nor acknowledgement, a haunted expression upon her angelic face.

"_That was strange," _Eragon commented to Saphira.

A bored grunt was his reply.

"_I am tired Eragon"_

"_I wonder..." _Snapping himself out of his musings Eragon left the council room behind and made his way back to his allotted tent; located outside Feinster's walls. A dreary day he thought; metallic clouds clogged the sky and a light rain was starting; all in all it complimented Eragon's mood: dull and hopeless.

Drawing upon his diminutive tent Eragon spied Blödhgarm standing guard at the tent entrance; Saphira sprawled upon the ground just to the side of him, asleep. Nodding towards Blödhgarm, Eragon entered his tent, a faint whisper of "_Shadeslayer"_ reaching his ears. Unclipping brisingr, Eragon placed it almost reverently upon his chest of belongings, light glimmering across the length of its alluring scabbard.

With that Eragon collapsed on to his cot: the soft, white mattress swallowing his exhausted form.

Reaching out towards Saphira he murmured, "_Saphira...love...you."_

Eragon's eyelids lazily shut.

The strangeness of the day started to slip away. A vague memory started to form, distorted images and shadowy creatures... maybe it wasn't a memory... maybe it was a vision of something to come... a forgotten world.

_A shade of a whisper._

"_Death is just release... many things in life are worse than death... don't ever forget that rider... I will purge this world clean."_

Demons in a bottle.

And then silence.


	2. Chapter 2

**Hey another Chapter! Quite amazing for me. I wrote this quite late so expect a lot of mistakes and odd phrases.**

_I walked into a gunfight with a knife to kill you  
>And cut you so fast when your blood spilled it was still blue<br>I'll hang you til you dangle and chain you with both ankles  
>And pull you apart from both angles<br>I wanna crush your skull til your brains leaks out of your veins  
>And bust open like broken water mains<br>So tell Saddam not to bother with makin another bomb  
>Cause I'm crushin the whole world in my palm<br>Got your girl on my arm and I'm armed with a firearm  
>So big my entire arm is a giant firebomb<br>Buy your mom a shirt with a Slim Shady iron-on  
>And the pants to match ("Here momma try em on")<br>I get imaginative with a mouth full of adjectives,  
>a brain full of adverbs, and a box full of laxatives<br>(Shittin on rappers) Causin hospital accidents  
>God help me before I commit some irresponsible acts again<em>_**, **_**Eminem, Still Don't Give A F***. Have I mentioned how much I love Slim Shady? He just cracks me up with is quack rhymes.**

**Hope You Enjoy. **

The clang of steel against steel produced a melody not unpleasant as Eragon strode through the training field, his Elven guards padding silently in his wake. Quite a distance still remained to the agreed meeting place with Arya. The reason behind which still eluded him. But he got the feeling that Blödhgarm and his kin were privy to the details: if the urgency in their not so quiet 'whispers' was anything to go by.

"_I agree they know, this wasn't some friendly invitation from Arya, it reeks of importance."_

Eragon turned his head skywards just as Saphira pulled out of a particularly frightening dive. Her scales scintillating from the suns dazzling display.

"_Hmm...Yes your right," _Eragon replied.

She gave an arrogant snort and said, "_Off course I am silly little two-legs; in any case I wish to hunt, keep your mind open_ _and don't go picking fights with men who have very long knives."_

A small smile carved it ways onto Eragon's face at the last remark, "_Don't worry I won't."_

With one last roar Saphira raced westwards and soon became a speck in the cloudless sky. Blödhgarm walked closer to Eragon.

"Shadeslayer wher..."

Raising a hand Eragon quickly, with as few words as possible stated, "Do not worry, she has gone off to hunt she will be fine... Blödhgarm... about this meeting what are the reasons behind it?"

The blue-haired elf gave a small shrug before responding, "Tis nothing secretive, I assure you, we are just going to discuss your training."

Eragon stopped and frowned, "My training?"

"You shall see," he answered and then joined the other elves a few feet behind; leaving Eragon to ponder his words.

The sound of fighting started to die down as the company reached the end of the field and the tree line started. For a while the crunch off booted feet upon compact dirt was all that could be heard and the underbrush grew thicker; leaving Eragon to question how far this strange meeting was to take place.

Their long march through the woods gave Eragon ample time to think and to remember. The pain of Oromis's death was still fresh thus Eragon tried his utmost to stop his thoughts from straying there; instead he relived his childhood memories, his life and friends before Saphira and the simplistic way of life he still loved. Eragon surprised even himself when he discovered the almost unbelievable yearning deep within his heart to return to his previous life. _"What could have happened by now if not for all of this_?" he wondered. His excitement and sense of loss building, "_New life, or maybe I could have been married by now!"_

Blödhgarm's voice cut through the nostalgia, "We are almost there, the clearing is just ahead."

Reality clawed its way back into picture with elf's words. Eragon fought the congregated sadness and trapped it from whence it came; ignoring its sharp protests, "_At least for the present_," he thought. He turned his focus back to the meeting.

True to his words the trees began to thin out and the distance between one to the next began to increase; until finally the clearing came into view.

Eragon's eyes instantly began to take in the details. A small stream ran through the middle of the clearing, the grass smelt fresh and the trees around the edges were still quite young. New life permeated through the area.

Arya was sat next to the gurgling stream, her knees brought up to her chest. Eragon felts himself drawn to her many curves and features. She looked stunning and majestic.

Without turning to face him she said in a clear flutelike voice, "Come here Eragon, sit down next to me."

With a backwards glance at his guards who seemed to have stopped at the tree line he did as she told him. Her alluring smell of pinecones became almost unbearable as a result of their closeness. Crossing his legs underneath him Eragon waited for her to speak, instead she turned her gaze onto him and her eyes flickered from his feet to his face as if measuring him and then looked him in the eye. Eragon returned her gaze without blinking until she finally turned away much to Eragon's surprise. No word or greeting came his way for a few minutes. Eragon started to wonder if she even planned on talking. As if reading his mind she turned her face back to him and Eragon's concentration wavered.

"I arranged this meeting so that we could discuss your training."

"Yes... what of it?"

Her eyes flashed in anger, "Don't be a fool Eragon the answer is obvious: you are not ready for what needs to be done, you need to nay must improve if our cause is to succeed."

Eragon recoiled in shock at her tone.

Seeing this Arya gave a quiet sigh.

"Forgive me Eragon; events of late have been difficult."

Nodding slightly at her words he said, "What do you mean improve?"

Arya was silent for a moment her eyes downcast and then, "I will train you in swordsmanship and magic, not too thoroughly of course you are already naturally gifted with the blade and your skills with magic are sufficient for the task to come, although I will show you small ways to improve your casting," she took a small breath and continued, "You should also start to meditate again if you have not done so already."

Eragon took time to digest everything she had said and then replied, "You probably know quite a few things about magic that I do not, I concede that freely... however how will you teach me swordplay? I have already beaten Vanir and he was not your average opponent."

Arya tensed slightly, "Don't be so naive Eragon: Vanir's skill with the blade cannot be compared with mine."

He may have been mistaken but Eragon thought that Arya's tone became proud for a second.

Saphira linked herself with him once again and said in a playful tone, "_Seems as if Arya has once again put you in your place little one."_

Eragon growled at that, _"Shut up." _

Saphira's amusement only increased. Eragon turned his attention back to Arya; she was watching him again.

"I see... when do you plan to begin?" he questioned.

"Now."

With that said she lithely got to her feet and drew her sword; then she re-located herself across the clearing.

"Draw thy sword Shadeslayer."

Standing himself, albeit without Arya's grace, Eragon too drew his sword. Brisingr seemed to sparkle with delight. Guarding Brisingr's edge Eragon assumed a crouched position and eyed Arya warily. If what she said was true than this would be quite the challenge.

An unnatural quiet settled over the clearing as both combatants circled each other slowly. Eragon turned his eyes to the left seeking Blödhgarm and his elves.

That was when Arya struck bounding across the clearing in a flash and bringing her sword up in a wide cleaving motion. As it was Eragon was barely able to bring Brisingr up to block the strike. His arm instantly went numb.

"_Hellfire!"_

"_This should be fun," _Saphira laughed.

Before Eragon could even resume his stance Arya danced to his right in a blur of movement and Eragon just stopped a strike to his ribs. Continuing her offense Arya put together a combination of light and heavy blows that had Eragon using every defensive technique in his arsenal. Eragon got the feeling that Arya was holding back somewhat and this only served to anger him, he had never felt so helpless, not against Druza, not against Vanir not even against Murtagh.

"_I will not go down so easy," _Eragon promised himself, determination taking hold.

Their duel went on through most of the morning; Eragon putting everything he possibly could into the fight. But the result of the dance was never in question. Arya was amazing in combat: she stretched in unimaginable ways and struck with the speed of a desert snake and unlike Eragon, who near the end had sweat coursing down his face; she still looked as she had at the start.

Playing her sword in a quick lunge she struck Eragon upon his shin causing him to bend slightly in pain, using his small lapse in concentration she quickly disarmed him with two quick blows: Brisingr flying high and then burying itself in the mud.

Eragon stood panting for a few moments as Arya went to retrieve Brisingr for him.

"_She is amazing,"_ he murmured to Saphira.

She grunted in agreement.

Returning Arya placed Brisingr in Eragon's sheath and then turned to look at him; she had small smile on her face.

"I find myself very impressed Eragon."

"Why? I lost," he groaned in response.

"Do not be so hard on yourself I have had many years to practice and improve you have only had two," she paused and then said "I have never seen a person so naturally gifted with the blade in all my years."

"Even still I doubt that is much help if I cannot improve," in spite of everything Eragon felt warm pride at Arya's words.

"Maybe not," she agreed.

Eragon let out a small laugh at her words.

The smile slipping from her lips she whispered, "You should and rest now Eragon, meet me here tomorrow at the same time."

"I will do... Arya would you like to dine with me?"

She stiffened and watched him suspiciously.

"No I did not intend anything of the sort..." Eragon reassured her.

Her face softening she replied, "Not today Eragon maybe another day... do not dwell too much upon Oromis Eragon... May the stars watch over you Shadeslayer.

Eragon gave a small bow, "Off course, as you wish... Shadeslayer."

"_How did she know?"_

Turning her back on him she walked away back to the camp, soon disappearing amongst the trees.

It may just have been the peace before the storm, but Eragon suddenly felt content with his lot in life.

"_Maybe this bloodshed and chaos is just the beginning of my new life."_

"_Off course it is," _Saphira interjected, _"Now get on my back before I lose my patience."_

**Slight redo.**


	3. Chapter 3

**Hmmm... Two chaps and still no feedback; damn my story must really suck, to be expected I guess. Oh well I don't really care its fun just writing it. I have a huge problem with chapter length, can't seem to write more than 2000 words, this chap is only 1200. Probably a whole host of mistakes here.**

"You're not concentrating Eragon."

He and Arya were sitting in the very same clearing they had been using the previous day and Eragon was supposed to be meditating. However he was finding it difficult to focus with Arya so close; she played on his senses like a lodestone and seemed to demand his undivided attention.

"_I worry for our cause Eragon, all Galbatorix has to do is replicate Arya's scent an-." _

"_You're not helping Saphira," _he growled back to her

"Just what are you doing Eragon? What part of_ concentration_ do you fail to grasp?"

Arya's tone clearly required an answer.

"I am trying princess, I assure you, you talking isn't helping the matter," Eragon responded tersely.

Her eyes flickering to his face Arya stared him for a moment and then nodded slowly, "We will continue for a while, if you do not improve we shall just have to leave it for the time being... or perhaps I could get another tutor for you: my presence seems to be having negative influence on you," amusement trickled into her voice at the look on Eragon's face, "What? You think I did not notice you staring out of the corner of your eye?"

"Yes," Eragon agreed, "You do look quite... ravishing this evening," his tone light but the words true nonetheless.

"_Eragon!" _Saphira roared in his mind. He flinched mentally.

"_Not one my smartest comments, but it should have interesting results either way."_

Arya denied a response for so long Eragon began to worry if she ever would.

Finally she replied in a tense voice, "I thank you for your kind words Eragon... now if you do not mind I believe I shall retire; we will carry on tomorrow." That said she climbed to her feet and quickly walked past Saphira to the edge of the clearing. Eragon watched her leave with a small smile.

"_What is so amusing?"_

The confusion she felt was very clear to Eragon.

"_Oh nothing... it's just that I have never seen Arya look so awkward_, _I might have to make more remarks like the one I did."_

"_I would not push my luck if I was you little one."_

"_Why not... the look on her face was well worth the risk."_

"_Yes, only now she knows just how much you wish to bed her," _Saphira replied cheekily_._

His face growing hot, "_It was... nothing of the... sort," _he spluttered back to the dragoness.

"_You cannot fool me Eragon; in fact with the way your face is glowing at moment I doubt you could fool anyone."_

Unwilling to suffer anymore embarrassment Eragon stood and followed the route, that Arya had taken only minutes before, back to the Varden's camp.

"_I shall race you back," _Saphira challenged as she took of behind him.

"_I wonder who will win," _the sarcasm heavy in his voice_, "The over-grown lizard with wings or the human."_

Shaking his head at the almost childish smugness he could feel radiating from her, he continued on his way. Leaving the now silent clearing behind.

_**(Time Slip Here)**_

No matter how hard he tried to understand them, the battle maps spread out in front him refused to yield their secrets and to his untrained eye resembled little more than a slew of lines and crosses; instead Eragon turned to Nausuada.

"So you will not wait for Orik to arrive before you attempt to take Belatona?"

The dark skinned women gave a exasperated sigh before responding, "I understand your concern Eragon but we cannot afford to wait here: the longer we keep off the offensive the more time the Empire has to consolidate its position and reinforce their cities," she paused to consult the maps, "In any case we do not require the dwarfs assistance to take Belatona." She looked at him with her eyes narrowed, "You know this so there must be another reason for you wishing to wait."

"Yes," Eragon said simply, "And it is quite obvious: the upcoming winter, the men cannot be forced to march through the snow and cold, it would quickly drain their reserves and sap their morale."

"They can and they will, and you cannot faze me here," her outlook was dismissive.

"_So I guess that method is stalled," _

"_It seems we can do little but obey," _Saphira agreed.

"_I don't like it."_

"_You don't have to like it."_

Eragon returned to himself just as Nausuada started her sentence, "What of Murtagh and Thorn Eragon?"

Grimacing at the mention of the Dragon and Rider Eragon put Nausuada concerns to rest, "Worry not; they suffered heavy injuries during their fight with my... masters, they should be out of the picture for at least a week or two."

Relief spread across her face, "I am glad, we should be in control of Belatona by then at the very least."

"If everything goes to plan that is, one can never be sure of anything but death in war," he cautioned her.

A stiff "Off course," was his only reply.

Nausuada turned her eyes back to the maps laid out across her mahogany campaign desk; clearly in deep thought. Leaving Eragon to fidget with hem of his tunic. A couple of minutes passed in silence. Then Nausuada looked back up at him, her eyebrows raised slightly as if in surprise.

"What of task I assigned you Eragon? What have learned about these Dragon Hearts?"

"Well to be honest nothing," he admitted, "I am waiting in the hopes that Glaedr wakes soon; he is the only way that I can think of learning more." He shrugged helplessly.

"Tell me why fate is never kind to us?"

"I beg to differ," Eragon argued, "We finally have a hope, even though it is small, of finally ridding the world of Galbatorix... but then again doing the right thing was never meant to be easy, for if it was there would be no need for people to stoop to evil."

He looked up to see Nausuada wearing a faint smile, "You have grown Eragon, and it will be interesting to see where you go from here."

"_That it will," _Saphira conveyed to both of them.

Straightening her back Nausuada drew herself to her full height and said, "Enough of these politics and this inordinate amount of planning; tell me has anything interesting happened to you two whilst we have been recovering here?"

Her bearing was pleasant and her posture friendly and instantly Eragon allowed himself to relax.

"For once nothing out of the ordinary has occurred for the last few days, life seems almost normal for the time being."

"I guess that would depend on your definition of normalcy, "said Nausuada.

"_Oh you know lessons, training, getting annihilated by Arya in duels; all the usual stuff for Eragon," _Saphira recounted lazily.

Nausuada gave a small laugh at the mortified expression on Eragon's face.

"I wonder how the men from your village would respond knowing that you had been beaten by a women." The merriment clear on her face, despite her efforts to conceal it.

Grumbling to himself Eragon said "I would tell them to duel Arya, it would be amusing to see how flustered Roran would get."

Nausuada agreed, "That it would."

The rest of the day passed in similar fashion: two friends laughing and jesting, discussing everything and nothing.

"_Remember me rider..."_


	4. Chapter 4

**I would appreciate it if you guys could point out mistakes and sentences that do not make sense, I was very tired when I wrote this; I had just got home from gym. Anyway some snags are going to come up in Saphira and Eragon's relationship same goes for ExA. What are your guy's opinions on ExA? I still don't know if to make it happen as it just doesn't seem realistic with the Arya given to us by CP. If you guys think it would add to story than how should I make it happen? Any Ideas would be appreciated. Thanks.**

The forced march resulted in exactly what Eragon and to an extent Saphira had feared, with the men of the Varden trudging through the wet sludge of mud with sullen expressions clinging to their faces.

"_This is a bloody fiasco!"_ Eragon complained to no one in particular. Inside he was seething: he just couldn't understand what Nausuada thought she could achieve upon the completion of this journey.

Saphira interrupted his raging, "_That's if we reach our destination; it isn't looking too good from up here."_

"_I knew from the start this would be a disaster"_

"_Hmmm... Yes if only Nausuada had paid heed to your abundance of wisdom."_

Snapping his head skywards, Eragon growled, "_Is that meant be funny?" _

"_Calm yourself Eragon, I doubt puffing your chest will impress Arya overmuch," _she laughed back to him.

"_Well it's fortunate that I could care less what that elf thinks."_

His deadpan voice caused Saphira to pause in her revelry, "_Little one? Is there something you're not telling me? May haps something from yesterday? Did you and Arya have an argument whilst I was asleep?_

Sighing Eragon replied in a drained tone, "_Just ignore me Saphira; neither I nor Arya have offended each other... on purpose that is: It seems as if I am just seeking a scapegoat to transfer my frustration onto and Arya's somewhat cavaliering attitude during our 'lessons' tends to make her a prime target more often than others."_

"_It's about the dream of yo-"_

"_I do not wish to speak of it," _Eragon snarled.

Silence took hold for a while as Saphira thought out her response.

"_I understand your apprehension to address such topics Eragon, I do; but how are we to function as Dragon and Rider if we are to keep secrets from each other." _

Eragon gave a malicious laugh at her words, _"You should know all about keeping secrets shouldn't you Saphira? Are you sure there isn't anything else that you should tell me? Like if Arya secretly loves me and is waiting for the war to end or something of a similar fashion?__*****__ Or maybe the elves are keeping another secret from me and the rest of the Varden, which they only trust you with and the real tyrant is Islanzadi? Huh well?"_ Eragon taunted her.

She recoiled from his mind but not before he felt her hurt and indignation. A part of him took a savage pleasure in her suffering.

"_Little one..." _she keened softly

Shame and regret instantly infused themselves into Eragon; he had no idea why he had said all that he had. Even if, deep down it had all been gnawing at his heart since Brom's true nature had been revealed to him. The secrecy had outraged him and from then on he had been questioning everything he had been told by those he thought he could trust. But the words he had spoken were not completely his own; an almost foreign presence seemed to inhabit his mind when he spoke.

"_Saphira, forgive me please, I do not know why I said that; I was not thinking."_

"_It has something to do with the dream; you have to let me examine your memories Eragon, I can help you."_

"_No," _he said determinately_, "I refuse: that voice... I cannot bear it."_

"_If not me than at least confide in another; perhaps Arya, should I call her?"_

She seemed close to begging.

His expression hardening, "_I do not let you into that part of my conscious and yet you believe that I shall allow Arya in? Have you gone mad?"_

Saphira did respond straight away, but when she did her voice was laced with defeat, "_Fine burden yourself if you wish, but keep in mind that I will not wait forever and one day I shall demand answers... This creature from your vision Eragon, I worry what I will do to you; it has already started to change you."_

Ignoring the last remark, Eragon acquiesced to her demands, "_Off course I expect that from you Saphira; rest easy knowing I will one day I will reveal all to you; but expect to be disappointed it is nothing extraordinary, I have already described most of the main events to you."_

Saphira growled softly in affirmative and the rest of the journey passed in companionable silence.

_**(Time Lapse)**_

"Who sent you Saphira?" Eragon questioned harshly as the princess came into view.

Arya stopped dead in her tracks as a look of surprise suffused her features.

"Excuse me?"

"Do you want me to spell it out for you? Or maybe I should draw a picture. Did Saphira send you to coax information out me?"

Anger came and went from Arya's posture.

"I will forgive your tone this time as you do not seem to be off right mind. No, Saphira did not send me; I came to inform you of the training area I have found for us, but we can talk of that later: my curiosity is piqued. Why would Saphira send me to gather information? What kind of information?"

"Clearly information that I do not wish to divulge," Eragon replied, his eyes guarded.

"And you think withholding information from your Dragon is standard protocol for Riders?"

"Protocol be damned, this is my choice," he roared.

Arya again let the outburst slide; instead she withdrew from their conversation, a look of concentration on her face. To a person of not versed in the arcane art it might seems a strange thing to do in public, but Eragon knew that she was contacting someone. Causing him to eye her warily; despite his anger and frustration he still felt himself drawn to her and it took a great amount of self-restraint, on Eragon's part, to not reach out and trace the contours of her face

Finally Arya's eyes regained their usual focus and intensity and the two emeralds flashed.

"I contacted Saphira," she confessed, "She told me of this dream of yours; she also told me of the mysterious presences she found in your mind."

"Oh really," Eragon replied sarcastically, "Why doesn't she fill you in on the rest of my life story while she's at it."

Praying that he had not finally pushed her away; Eragon tried to regain control of his emotions and recited scraps of poetry to calm himself.

Arya continued unperturbed, "It is cause for concern... I will think on it: there might have been a case similar to this in the past." She looked him in the eye and asked, "Might you have any idea on the identity of this intruder."

Eragon frowned at her use of the word 'intruder', it felt inaccurate, "No I do not. However one thing I do know is that this presence is no intruder, it feels like it has always been there, just below the surface; even before Saphira hatched for me. What frightens me however is the fact that I do not understand its motives and desires," Shaking his head Eragon recalled the dream, "Whatever it is it's very strong ... I could feel power almost oozing out of it during the vision and it was a type that I have never met before."

Arya looked down at her feet as she absorbed all of the information.

"A new enigma has risen it seems," she whispered.

"Perhaps Glaedr can shed some light on this mystery?"

"Perhaps," she agreed, nodding slowly, "Is this what Saphira was after?"

Eragon shook his head.

"Then what is she seeking...?" she asked

"A viewing... of the memory." Eragon suddenly felt weary of all the talking.

"I see."

Both of them lapsed into a comfortable silence. Arya in deep thought and Eragon wishing for the softness of his cot.

Arya broke the silence when she looked up and said, "You've given me much to think on Eragon... much."

"Hmph?" Eragon started, just as Arya moved closer.

"Now, the original reason behind my visit: your training. You have no doubt seen the small lake which lies east from the Varden camp, no? Come their later today, it was the closest location I could find that will give us the required privacy."

She stopped, uncertainty showing in her demeanour and then she stepped even closer to Eragon and gently cupped his face.

Eragon's breath caught in his throat, "Arya wha..."

She interrupted him with a whisper, "Take care Eragon Shadeslayer, I... I do not trust this being residing within you and neither should you."

She brought her face even closer to his and Eragon could make out the individual lines that made out her features; the scent of pinecones showered Eragon's senses. He could almost taste her upon his tongue; almost feel the softness of her lips against his own...

And then she was gone.

**So Yeah...(** *** I find it funny how some stories have Arya confide in Saphira about her feelings for Eragon and suddenly Saphira is keeping a huge secret from Eragon and somehow Eragon is always clueless to the big secret along with everything else around him, the reasons behind which I don't know. It just seems so Un-Arya like to confide things like that in anyone, other than the subject and only when she wants to). In fact I may just get Eragon into a relationship with someone else other than Arya for a bit and then after he has some experience as a lover I can think about ExA.**


	5. Chapter 5

**Hey guys. What do you think of my first battle scene? Point out any errors and typos please.**

Eragon and Saphira were gliding above the centipede like Varden when a concerned Arya contacted them.

"_Your presence is required Eragon, yours too Saphira, come quickly."_

She was gone before Eragon could even ask why.

"_They should be at the front of the Army," _he told Saphira

"_Yes, hold on tight little one; I would not want you to be blown away like a leaf."_

Nodding to himself in agreement, Eragon tightened his silver bracers and clung to the sapphire spike protruding directly in front of him.

"_Im_ _Ready_."

At his words Saphira angled her body diagonally and for a moment a primal fear gripped Eragon; then just as quickly the dragoness unfurled her velvety wings and swooped downwards at a expeditious rate: it seemed as if she was going crash into the ground; until, at the last moment, she pulled out of her dive and hurtled towards the front. The sudden inrush of air caused Eragon's eyes to water.

"_The Varden have stopped."_

"_Let us discover why."_

Nausuada's group of companions came into view as Saphira drew nearer. Saphira landed some feet away from the cluster of people and horses and Eragon nimbly leaped of her back and made his way towards Nausuada. His eyes taking in the scene: Arya was there, behind Nausuada's warhorse, she looked up and acknowledged Eragon with an exaggerated blink; Orrin was also amongst the crowd, quietly conversing with Nausuada. The rest of the congregation consisted of Nausuada's Nighthawks and both the Urgal's and Dwarf's represents. Blödhgarm and another elf were also making their way to the front to take up their duties.

Nausuada turned to face Eragon just as he was about to announce his arrival.

"Good, you are here, a huge problem just came up Eragon; figuratively and literally."

Concern gripped Eragon, "And what is this problem."

Orrin answered before Nausuada could so much as open her mouth, "Our scouts report a large force of soldiers, flying the banner of The Empire some leagues away," his voice was gruff, almost hostile.

"Where did they come from," Eragon remarked, astounded that a force of that size could evade them for this long.

"We do not know for sure," Nausuada admitted. "But we can make an educated guess and take this force to be Galbatorix's reserve."

Dreading the answer, Eragon asked, "How large?"

"At least thrice ours," Nausuada's voice was calm and controlled as if she was commenting on the weather.

"_Damn!"_

"_This shaping up to a fine exercise, wouldn't you agree?" _Saphira inquired.

"_Speak for yourself."_

"From whence do they approach?"

It was Arya who answered; lifting one flawless hand, "From there."

Eragon followed her line of sight, squinting. He could just make out a dark smudge in the distance and a few banners.

Turning his attention back to Nausuada, "What do you plan to do?"

"The enemy expects to catch us by surprise; it will impact their moral when they find us already formed up and ready; in that sense we shall withdraw... back to the hill we passed a few hours ago; there we shall form our battle line, ready to repel whatever attack they plan to launch."

"A good as plan as any," Eragon said. 

"Aye, let us pray to the gods that it is enough."

_**(Time Lapse)**_

It was dark when the Empire's soldiers finally reached the Varden's army.

Eragon stood to Saphira's right hand side, equipped for war. His polished hauberk clinked with every movement outshining the helm he had borrowed from the Varden quartermaster.

Arya was at his side, whilst Blödhgarm and his elves took up position behind him. The princess was scrutinising the enemy force with great intensity.

Noticing this Eragon whispered, "Do you believe that we will be defeated?"

She didn't answer instantly and instead continued to survey the soldiers lining up across from them; then in voice even quieter than Eragon's, "No, this should be a easy enough victory: most of their soldiers seem afraid and inexperienced."

"I agree; a waiting game now I guess."

At his words both armies settled into an unnaturally silence; final prayers were recited and straps tightened as the men awaited the start of the battle. The Varden were under strict order not to charge they were to hold their positions, Nausuada had been adamant on this point.

A single clear note began from somewhere deep inside The Empire's ranks and resonated outwards: the men of the Varden waited with baited breaths.

Arya took a defensive stance, "It begins."

With a raw throated yell the rank upon rank of Empire soldiers charged up the hill towards the Varden. Saphira launched herself into the air, this had been the plan they had devised beforehand: Saphira would harass the soldiers from above whilst Eragon, Arya and the elves would fight on the ground as a single unit.

The distance was covered in a blink of an eye and Eragon soon found himself ducking from a swing off a might battleaxe and then quickly standing to finish the man off with a quick thrust from Brisingr. Bringing his arm up in a wide cleaving motion Eragon decapitated one of the men duelling Arya; blood and tissue spraying both him and the elven ambassador. His brief distraction allowed a young soldier to slice his left shoulder and Eragon growled as a white hot pain spread through his body, Blödhgarm quickly intervened, his mouth open in a savage snarl, he killed the warrior with two swift lunges from his razor sharp dagger. Satisfied that any current threat was neutralised, he crouched in front of Eragon covering him from further attack.

"Shadeslayer, is the wound serious?"

"Nothing that can't wait," Eragon replied.

"Wait?"

"It would take too long for me to heal it now, but it matters little: the wound is not hampering me in anyway."

Finished explaining Eragon dashed back into the fight, Blödhgarm at his heels.

The battle became very subdued after a while: Eragon found himself repeating the same manoeuvres with everyman he faced, from time to time he would catch sight of Saphira as she flew over his shoulder: spreading terror and confusion through the Empire's men. Eragon seemed to cheat death many a times throughout the engagement; just as a blade or mace made it ways towards his side it would be blocked by either Arya or Blödhgarm, The mindless slaughter carried on for so long that Eragon's basic senses began deserting him and the pain from his many wounds became a dull ache.

Slowly but surely the Empire began to fall and falter against the Varden's determined defence. Individual figures could be seen running for their lives, yet the death continued, clogging up the survivors nostrils as self-preservation took hold of men's bodies and adrenaline started to recede.

With a frustrated roar Eragon lunged forward, Brisingr outstretched, and impaled the veteran who had survived both of his previous attacks. His lifeless corpse hitting the ground with a soft thump, an uncertain silence once again gripped the vicinity. Looking around Eragon spotted Arya sheathing her sword with a weary expression and the fur on Blödhgarm settling back into its natural state.

"It's over...?" he croaked.

Looking up Arya gave a small, uncertain grimace, "It is."

A drop of crimson blood dripped down her face from a shallow cut on her cheek.

"But at what cost?"

A shrug was his only retort.


	6. Chapter 6

**Yeah I've been quite busy lately. But Chap 6 is here, point out any mistakes.**

"_**I Tried my hardest what else was I supposed to do?"**_

"_**Try fucking harder." **_**From one of Immortal Techs intro. Yeah you kids out there take note of this saying.**

The faint rays of dawn were trickling over the horizon by the time Eragon had located Nausuada. She was hunched over her campaign table, a brief distance behind the battle line, with a fierce scowl adorning her bearings. Her previously glinting armour was covered in filth and blood; what seemed to be a man's innards painted her left shoulder. Eragon felt a nervous tension build up inside him.

Something had gone seriously wrong.

He approached her cautiously as one would a wild animal.

"Nausuada?"

She slowly looked up. Her eyes were dead. A vice tightened around Eragon's heart.

Saphira voiced his thoughts, "_A great evil has took roots."_

"Eragon... Eragon... thank the gods you were not harmed."

The weakness in her voice alarmed Eragon, "Nausuada what has happened," he demanded; his voice uncharacteristically rough.

She ignored his questioning, "How is Arya? For that matter what is the state of Blödhgarm and his elves?"

"Minor injuries. Arya left to tend to her own affairs... Nausuada wha-"

"Orrin is dead."

Eragon recoiled, stunned.

"_No, it cannot be."_

Nausuada continued, oblivious to all else, "So are most of his cavalrymen. To make matter worse the left flank was completely decimated; if not for the Urgal's intervention all would have been lost."

Eragon was speechless: his mind was quickly formulating all of the problems the Varden would now face.

"_It is a sad day," _Saphira murmured softly.

"Orrin... dead? How can it be? This will cause unimaginable strife."

Nausuada nodded in agreement, "The soldiers are not yet aware."

Her whole posture was worn. Perspiration clung rebelliously to her sable skin. Even as Eragon watched a lone drop escaped her skin and hit the floor with a silent scream. It reminded Eragon of her own humanity; a term she would no doubt deny herself.

"_Wise of her,"_ Saphira commented, breaking Eragon's train of thought.

"What are your intentions from now on?"

"The men of Surda must swear allegiance to me."

"Is that wise?" Eragon catechized warily.

"Wise or not it must be done; we cannot afford to have such a large number of men wandering aimlessly through our camp."

"I understand... what then?"

Her confidence waivered slightly.

"Then... Then Orrin must be buried."

"You were close to him."

It was not a question.

"Yes, we did not agree upon everything but he a good king and a good friend."

"He was a good king," Eragon agreed.

Their conversation degraded into silence: Nausuada looked deep in thought, no doubt planning their next move, whilst Eragon stared of into the distance: waiting to be dismissed.

"_Everything complicates the closer we get to Uru'baen."_

Saphira's response was a long time coming, "_It is to be expected."_

Nausuada turned back to Eragon, "I am tired, you are tired and no conclusion will come of our rambling; go and rest. The Varden will stay here for the foreseeable future."

"Take care Nausuada; we all need a break from time to time," Eragon warned before turning to leave.

_**(Time Lapse, though only a short while)**_

Eragon found Arya leaning against a small tree some leagues west of the encampment where the air was clearer and the ground yet a virgin to men's blood.

The princess was curled into herself, her chin resting on her knees. Despite the blood and filth of war she still radiated an ethereal beauty.

Eragon slumped down unceremoniously next to her.

"Orrin is dead."

His voice formal, almost cold, caused Arya to stare searchingly at him.

"I was not aware. It is a true misfortune: Surda will deteriorate swiftly if nothing is done."

Despite her decorous wording the true effect of Orrin's death was hidden on her.

"Death seems to hamper our every effort: first Oromis and now Orrin... I see only darkness."

Her hand shot out and gripped Eragon's forearm with deceptive strength.

"Do not wallow in your own despairs it ill-becomes you; never give up hope."

Her tone was firm and Eragon desperately wanted to believe her. But how could he?

"I wish I could share in your optimism; our cause is lost: we nurtured but a shade of a dream and even that is starting to fade away."

"No, your thoughts are clouded: as long as there is but one fool still fighting there is hope," she chided him, her grip becoming tighter.

Eragon snorted in laughter, "You have quite a way with words princess."

"It is true."

"Perhaps."

Sighing in satisfaction Arya loosened her death grip and removed her hand, pushing it outwards to envelope her knees.

Minutes passed into a silence which neither party wished to break.

Eragon found the quiet soothing and almost intimate; his eyelids grew heavy and he would have passed into sleep if not for Arya.

"I have news as well."

Eragon turned to her, surprised.

"What news?"

"It concerns Islanzadi and the elves."

"Something went wrong?" Eragon asked, his senses instantly alert.

"Not so much wrong as strange: the elves were also attacked around the same time as us."

"That is strange; it seems impossible for a force of such a size to escape our notice for so long."

"Quite," Arya replied tersely, "It was coordinated well."

"Casualties?" Eragon questioned, dreading the answer.

"My mother did not mention, though I doubt they are high."

For a minute the usual arrogance of a superior race entered her voice and Eragon smiled at it.

"_Nobles."_

"_I find it quite amusing," _Saphira replied to his remark.

"_How are you feeling my Queen?"_

"_Tired, but other than that perfectly fine."_

Eragon and Arya again let their conversation die away and instead turned to watch the rising sun as it slowly consumed the darkness. A nagging question needled its way into Eragon's thoughts; one that had been troubling him since Feinster.

"Arya?"

"Hmmm...?"

"What of Oromis and Glaedr's funeral? What is being done?"

The she-elf stiffened considerably at his words.

"No doubt Islanzadi held some sort of congregation for their honour."

Eragon interrupted her before she could continue, "What of me and you? Why did we not attend? Why did Blödhgarm and the other elves not attend? It seems a poor show of respect."

A torrent of hurt and anger welled up inside Eragon.

"Peace Eragon, you know the answer to your questions; we are at war."

"We cannot allow this war to consume our lives."

"And neither shall we; but ask yourself this if you had gone would you return in due time?"

"Off course!" Eragon exclaimed, "Contrary to what you seem to believe I am no fool: I know my place, my duty."

"I never called you a fool."

"Actually that statement isn't completely true: you have named me a fool before, you did so after Nausuada's 'election' so to speak."

Arya gave a soft groan, "Please Eragon I am in no mood for your games."

Eragon let this testimony go unchallenged.

"In any case," Arya proceeded, "I was never given a formal invitation: it is all guesswork on my part."

"What would be done to their bodies?"

"Most dragon and rider pairs are cremated."

Eragon's voice became grave with his reply, "I see."

By now the sun had defeated the dark and stood proud and bright. Elf and human settled to quietly watch.

"I have always loved the sunrise," Arya whispered.

Eragon silently agreed. The silence of the location along with the comfort of his seat soon lulled him into a state of impassiveness where dream and reality mingled until neither was distinguishable.

_**(Time Lapse)**_

A small weight against his shoulder brought him back to corporeality.

He looked down his eyebrows shooting up in incredulity.

Arya's head was resting against his shoulder; her eyes were closed and her breathing steady and soft. Her cascading hair covering most of her face and Eragon's shoulder.

Asleep.

Eragon smiled warmly at the sight, his owns eyes closing of their own accord.

"_Eragon... Eragon... My ERAGON! Never will you escape me."_

**How about that: I even got a bit of ExA in there. I'm still not sure on the whole ExA thing; should I get them together? What do you guys think? Yes I have noticed that most of my writing is dialog so far. Mainly because I need to set some things out between characters first and also because I have never written a story before and am still getting used to it. To the guy who asked about the last line it's the creature, it's discussed in previous chapters. **


	7. Chapter 7

**Yep another dark and dreary chapter. ExA have a small argument and the Varden get some visitors. Tell me if it sucks I don't mind, it's the only way to improve.**

The days to Orrin's funeral seemed to adopt a detached aura; many a things may have happened or nothing, Eragon could never remember. Life in itself lost its lustre and the future came into conflict with the dreams of free men.

Nothing was said. Nothing needed to be said.

It was at times like this that Eragon withdrew into himself and hoped, hoped and wished for an antidote to their failure; because that's what it was, honeyed words could not disguise it. Yes they had won the skirmish, but war always had a price and sometimes it was too steep, too taxing and the carefully constructed vision would crumble. He and Saphira had survived Oromis's death with their hopes still breathing, just. But now the liberators were trapped, encapsulated within their own prisons: petty squabbles and churlish desires took hold of men's hearts now that the affair between Surda and the Varden was on the brink of collapse. What held these men together now? Their diplomat was gone. It was a question taunting not only Eragon but also Nausuada, Islanzadi even Arya; it was what kept them awake at night and what drowned them with insecurities.

_How cruel of fate, to mock us with failure so close to our goal, _Eragon thought,his heart heavy with worry.

No reply graced his musings and that was what scared Eragon, more than the haunted look in his friend's eyes, more than the collapse of discipline within the ranks of the Varden, even more than the presence of _the creature._

It was getting dark now, the small rays of light receding over the horizon. A faint wind slowly picked up, pelting Eragon with minute specks of dust and razor edged leaves.

A quiet howl carried across the land and then nothingness... or so Eragon thought.

It was the urgent pattering of feet that first alerted Eragon to danger. He waited, tense, his sense tingling. An urge to destroy crept into his limbs along with a childish excitement. This intruder would pay for its boldness... _dearly._

It was a savage emotion, inhuman. An emotion the foolish farm boy who embarked upon this crusade wouldn't even recognize.

"_Saphira come quickly." _

A frustrated roar greeted his words, "_I come."_

Perhaps it was a result of his heightened awareness or the fact that he was leagues from the Varden' camp that served to increase his surprise at the appearance of a certain elf.

"Arya!"

She was panting, sweat dripping from her forehead, her hair clinging rebelliously to her flawless cheeks. Eragon stood slowly as if performing a dance, shocked at her appearance.

Brisingr quickly left its scabbard, showering the dwelling with its brilliance.

"We have been searching for you Eragon; do not shield your presence so thoroughly: we know not when we may require your assistance or you ours."

Her bearings oozed submission. This was not the Arya he knew; Eragon tightened his defences.

His eyes hard, Eragon growled, "What has happened Arya?"

"I believe the true question would be to ask what has not happened," she regained her usual coldness, emotions quickly vanishing, "Murtagh and Thorn attacked less than half an hour ago... But," her facade somewhat cracking, "They were also accompanied by our true foe."

The rest of her words were drowned out by Eragon's warring conscience. Galbatorix had finally forsaken his lair, the cold hand of misery and horror pressed down upon Eragon's back, his feet froze and Brisingr clattered to the ground with a distant thud. What could he hope to achieve now? His power was insufficient. Nothing existed to balance the scales. Even his paltry hopes were crushed, swept away with the Varden's end.

"_Saphira..."_

"_I know little one, I am coming."_

Defeat laced even her emotions; she who had always been confident in the past.

Eragon felt small, small and insignificant.

"_I've failed Saphira."_

She did not contradict him.

Turning back to Arya, the terror clear in his tone Eragon voiced the question gnawing at his heart, "What... what are we to do now?"

"I don-"

"Roran... Katrina... Nausuada," Eragon croaked, his heart was hammering, turning over each and every scenario.

"Nausuada made it out... she travels to Feinster... as for the rest... I know not," she stopped, "I am sorry."

A rage, so deep that even Saphira recoiled from him, filled Eragon to the brim. He would make them pay, all of them, they would all burn in his personal hell. He turned to the encampment, the faint blaze of the fires now visible. One foot pushed its way forward.

Arya reading his bearings swiftly blocked his path, her right hand shooting out to hold him in place.

"No, you cannot."

Lashing out with his left elbow Eragon grazed Arya's chin, he launched another barrage at her, angered at the failure of the first. Ducking under his blows Arya stepped back hastily, putting a small distance between the two. Her eyes twins pools of anger. Still she refused to move, her stance firm.

"Move woman or I swear I will kill you where you stand," Eragon roared.

"Think Eragon," she insisted, "That is exactly what they want you to do; what do you hope to achieve with your demise? As long as you live there is hope, no matter how slim, a hope men and women have died for."

Eragon's tumultuous emotions barely acknowledged her words. Just as he was about to attack again Saphira intervened.

"_Eragon get a hold of yourself, Arya is right your death will serve no purpose. We must push all that much harder now."_

"_You are right," _Eragon conceded regrettably, the thirst for vengeance was still strong, but now logic was reappearing.

He slumped to the ground, eyes downcast and tears welling behind the lids. Arya approached him cautiously kneeling at his side as if in prayer. Eragon did not look up; neither did he offer her an apology. He did not see the need.

Arya allowed his silence to pass unchallenged, he needed this, even the elf could tell. So she waited.

_**(Little Time Lapse Here)**_

Saphira landed softly her feet barely making a noise, the usual brilliance of her scales subdued by the night; even still both rider and elf were brought out of their reveres.

"_Oh Eragon," _she murmured, nuzzling him affectionately.

Sadness and understanding passed along their link and, despite everything else, Eragon thanked the gods who had blessed him with her.

"_What are we to do now Saphira?"_

"_I... am unsure...your rage clouds my thoughts... perhaps Arya has a plan..."_

Eragon turned to the elf in question, his eyes dead. She had been watching their exchange, her eyes narrowed, with an emotion akin to jealousy across her features. It was gone as soon as it came.

"What," Eragon started, letting the words roll across his tongue, "Do you suggest we do now? Saphira and I are lost on the subject."

"Blödhgarm and those elves who survived are already making their way to Gil'ead; we shall join them... but tonight we rest here, we know not what Galbatorix has released upon the land."

Nodding in appeasement, Eragon craned his neck slightly to catch sight of the now smouldering remains of the Varden's encampment. Life just seemed to complicate with each passing day. Eragon could feel the hollowness building up inside him, soon he wouldn't care for the war; victory or defeat, it would be the same to him.

As time passed Eragon found himself staring at Arya: should he apologize? He battled back and forth for several moments, until finally the choice was made for him. Arya's head drooped slightly to the front and her eyes fluttered shut.

He continued to watch her for a while, till her state of impassiveness dulled his senses and it became difficult to stay awake. His final thoughts before the darkness engulfed him were of his cousins and their unborn child.

_Roran... I'm so sorry._

_Never again, never again shall I fail._

Something changed within Eragon; a harsh tug deep within him marked the end of naiveté. A sharp, almost painful determination rose from the ashes. Reborn, almost as a complete opposite... almost.

_Failure is a vice of the weak._

**So I figured out how to check stats and I have had 1600 hits, but only 5 reviews. Come one guys, tell me if it sucks I don't mind, really. It's how you improve. Tell me what is bad and I will try to fix it. I tried to cut down on the dialog a bit. So yeah hope you liked it. Oh and point out any errors. Are my chaps to short? Or is my writing bad? (I have never written a story before, only description pieces so I expect this). **

**Updated Chap a bit.**


	8. Chapter 8

**Yeah here's another chapter. This one discusses the depth of Eragon's pain and rage. Also I managed to slip in a little ExA even if it is mainly their continued 'argument' sort off. Hope you enjoy and please point out any errors: I didn't proof read this. I have this unique and weird style of combining tenses and persons, so no it isn't a mistake, I do it on purpose. **

"_**They say Hip-Hop just destroy tell em' look at me boy." From Lupe Fiasco.**_

"Eragon... Eragon."

The voice was somewhat familiar, somewhat foreign; it had no place in Eragon's dreams. Curiosity compelled Eragon's eyes to flicker open: Narrowed slits of emerald scrutinized his face, between a gulf of whispers. Arya was quick to put distance between the two as if Eragon was disease ridden. The detached mask shrouding her from the world.

Pushing himself to his feet and stretching Eragon allowed his thoughts to wander; last night's events slowly yielding their secrets. Grief, sharp as a knife pierced his heart.

_Roran_

Yet in spite of his cousins almost certain demise, the crushing hopelessness of days gone was starting to lift, replaced by a new determination, one he had not experienced since his changing. Victory was assured; Galbatorix had not long left upon this earth.

_For all your dark power, you cannot hope to defeat me now Galbatorix. You will fall even if I must fall with you._

"_No he will not,"_ Saphira whispered; her tone one of reassurance. He did not need it.

The dragoness was curled into the side of a large oak; its leafless branches swaying and dancing to the winds tune. Even as he watched a small twig snapped from its parent branch and struck the Sapphire dragon's skull, his elven hearing faintly devouring the soft thud.

"We must be on our way; it would be a miracle for us to reach the Elves before they forsake Gil'ead, we shall probably reach them on their travels."

Arya's intervention jolted Eragon; he had almost forgotten the elf's presence.

Turning to watch her Eragon could not help but feel resentful. It was she, she who brought word of his cousin's death; she was the cause of his pain, just as she had been in the past, just as she would continue to cause him pain in the future. His anger must have shown for the she-elf recoiled slightly, her back foot striking the charred logs behind her. Shock and confusion, for once, clear on her face.

Grim satisfaction filled Eragon.

_Nothing more than unwanted baggage, our journey would be much swifter without her._

An urge to wrap his hands around her puny little throat and tighten washed over Eragon.

Almost instantly shock and disgust wormed their way into Eragon. Doubt over his character, over his being resonated through his being. Something had changed... perhaps by too large of a margin.

_I cannot allow this creature to taint me further._

Reaching out with a shaking arm before he could stop himself, Eragon spoke in a soothing voice, "I beg for your forgiveness princess, times are hard," she nodded at this, drawing somewhat closer to Eragon, "You are, of course, right," he finished.

Arya's cool impassiveness returned with each spoken word, until control once again lay with her.

"Yes, prepare yourself; I shall gather our supplies."

Waving his hand dismissively, Eragon murmured, "Go ahead."

Arya's eyes hardened and for a moment Eragon prepared for her retribution. It never came. Turning in one graceful motion she set about gathering their meagre belongings.

"_You must watch your tongue, lest it dig you into an early grave little one."_

Despite her wording the tone of their delivery was no doubt playful.

"_I think Arya needs to pay heed as much as I."_

_**(Time Lapse)**_

It was not much longer before they were ready. Saphira angled her triangular head skywards and spread her translucent wings. One mighty buffet launched them upwards' the usual giddy sensation smouldering deep within Eragon's stomach. Another wave of Saphira's muscular wings caused both riders to pitch forward; Arya tightened her arms around Eragon, an action that would have once sent shivers racing up his spine only served to agitate him now. Their rate of incline reduced steadily till they reached the required altitude; their abode of the night before but a speck amidst the bustling tree tops and rolling hills.

The peace of their flight drew a silence from the three companions, a silence which Eragon supported whole-heartedly. It allowed him time to think, to recollect from recent events, to plan his future and that of Alagaesia. They would win: he did not know how but his sub-conscious assured him of victory; an assurance only amplified by the deep seated rage. A rage so potent mountains would cower before it; they would pay, both of them. His billowing emotions caused him to tighten his left hand around Brisingr's polished pommel; he fought to master his breathing. Murtagh would beg Eragon to kill him at the end of their little _reunion_ and Galbatorix... Galbatorix, the very name set his heart racing, faster than even Arya's touch had been capable of.

_Oh Galbatorix, no pain is too great. I will teach you the meaning of pain; ingrain it within your skin. _

Disjointed images of horrific tortures and punishments wafted through Eragon's mind. A screaming Murtagh being lowered into a pot of bubbling oil; the flesh of his feet burning away, the enticing aroma of scorched flesh wafting the plain black room of his imagination. The red rider's screams intensified as the oil swept higher, its course inevitable as it enveloped Murtagh's manhood, igniting the tender tissue. A screech of inhumane nature escaped Murtagh's lips.

_Music to my ears, _Eragon thought smiling to himself in amusement.

Images of Galbatorix soon drowned out Murtagh's pitiful moans. Eragon watched in content as the king had the skin of his face slowly peeled away, as the now bare meat of his face was turned upwards, as granulated crystals of salt showered down from above, covering his exposed flesh with vicious stings. A silent scream built to a crescendo as Eragon shivered in unadulterated delight.

He was interrupted just as he was about to move back to Murtagh's fate when a soft honeyed and tanned hand softly shook his shoulders.

_ARYA, DAMN YOU!_

"Eragon," she whispered hesitantly, concern lacing her tongue.

"What?" he whispered in response, terse, annoyed at the interruption. A near fanatical need to take the woman by her shoulders and throw her from Saphira's back gripped Eragon. As it was he was barely able to contain his desire. _No,_ he corrected himself the creature's desire.

The elf paused before replying. Studying his face with soulful eyes; Eragon felt uncomfortable beneath her gaze, it felt as if his secrets were oozing out of him. Secrets that should stay his until his abject undoing.

_She would pay one day. Dearly._

"I worry for you Shur'tugal, you were shaking a while back; you almost fell off in fact. What is wrong?"

As expected her voice was guarded and displayed no outwards bursts of the worry she claimed to feel.

_Lies_

As it was Eragon almost laughed at her question.

"_What is wrong? What a delightful question," _He remarked to Saphira.

"_Eragon..." _she warned, beseechingly, "_Do not offend Arya, she is trying to help."_

Bowing in the elven show of fealty Eragon made to '_reassure' _the little princess, "Worry not I was just having a dream... a delicious dream... ambrosial if truth be told."

"What of?"

"Nothing and everything," he replied mysteriously.

She cocked her head to the sight, the fiery light of the sun engulfing her feature in rapturous display.

Lighting struck Eragon dumb and for the first time in days Eragon wondered at her unnatural beauty. 

**So what do you lot think? The Chap is quite short I know. But I tried to get more detail and emotion into it. I might rewrite the earlier chapters, depends how it all goes. Please feel free to Review and share your opinion: what's good, what's bad etc. Thanks for Reading.**


	9. Chapter 9

**Another filler sort of chapter: I am trying to slow it all down a bit. Point out any mistakes. I just realised how much has actually happened in the last few chapters, so there won't be much for a while. At least I don't think so. Tell me what you think of this chapter, what is good and what is bad. I really didn't want Eragon mourning for much longer**

When compared to an average marching army the elves would be seen as revolutionary, or perhaps foolish. The small groups of warrior floating gracefully across the now frost bitten soil would be rendered utterly useless if they were ambushed by any enemy force of decent size; it would be virtually impossible for them to form a defensive battle line, the fighting would degenerate into bitter skirmishes. An easy, simple victory and the elves formidable reputation would soon disappear.

_Just so they can spare the land a little suffering, _Eragon wondered, shaking his head slightly in disbelief.

They had been spotted. Individual elves were now pointing towards Saphira, even from the distance separating them their joy at her appearance was obvious, here and there brief outbreaks of soft laughter could be heard, just, carried upon the wind like secret passed from one generation to the next.

"_The elves need no God as long as they have you Saphira."_

"_You... are just jealous," _Saphira replied smugly, certain of success.

Eragon snorted and patted her playfully, "_Believe what you wish dragon."_

Satisfied, Saphira lapsed into a complacent silence and concentrated on her flying.

She tipped downwards and her riders leaned forward slightly, they passed through the clouds swiftly, with a small pull. Eragon found himself drizzled in water as they emerged. By now Saphira's arrival was a general consensus amongst the elves and most had stopped, waiting for her to land. Islanzadi's entourage could be seen at the head of the 'army', they were the only mounted troops amongst the elves; their steeds mirroring the elves unconscious grace... and their vanity.

Arya tapped his shoulder lightly to draw his attention. Eragon turned slowly. She wasn't looking at him; instead focused upon Islanzadi and her companions.

"May I help?" Eragon asked, raising one intense eyebrow.

She turned to look at him, "We should land over there," pointing with one slender arm to a clearing some distance from Islanzadi.

Eragon ignored her outstretched arm, "Worry not..." he whispered, allowing his gaze to flicker downwards, lingering over the captivating swell of her breasts and then continuing downwards.

Arya frowned at his scrutiny, troubled.

"I'm up here Eragon," she stated, calm, collected, and to Eragon utterly seductive.

"I disagree, the view is better down here."

Two eyes flying upwards, Arya stared at Eragon in astonishment. Eragon smiled at her reaction and turned back to the front; he could feel Saphira's rolling laughter underneath him. Arya did not respond.

"_You will live to regret this Eragon."_

"_I regret nothing," _lacing his voice with false bravado.

The ground was now rushing to meet them, each speck of dust coming into focus as if under sagacious magnification. A small crash marked Saphira's entrance into the playpen of elven politics. Guarding his thoughts and reviewing his shields Eragon slipped off Saphira's left side, Arya close behind him, carefully placing a dignified distance between the two as she landed. Her withdrawn behaviour only served to amuse Eragon further.

Breaking the silence, Eragon said, "Let us proceed."

"Yes... let's," her tone neutral, completely guarded, as it had been when they first met.

**(Separate)**

Their journey was short, yet tense; each step on the compact and somewhat icy ground supplemented emotions and thoughts. Neither glanced at the other.

Islanzadi was to be found standing at the centre of a group of elven nobles, her face cold, unforgiving, so much like her daughters. Eragon and Arya approached at a respectable pace and bowed slightly to Islanzadi, Eragon somewhat bitterly. He had never trusted Islanzadi, no matter whose mother she was.

No one spoke for a span of some minutes: Islanzadi kept her eyes cast towards Arya, who in turn seemed to be contemplating her shoes for some great secret. Whilst Eragon let his eyes wander over the hoard of nobles surrounding them, eyeing each suspiciously; they returned his gaze with caution and in some cases hostility.

"_It seems the elves have been notified of our little encounter with the Menoa Tree," _she remarked, she sounded disconcert, almost pained. It was unlike her.

"_Hmmm... it seems so."_

Eragon refused to cower at their glares and instead gazed back towards them with cold, frank eyes, daring them to mention the subject.

"Rider Eragon," Islanzadi called quietly, Eragon turned his cold stare onto her, "You bring grievous news, with the collapse of the Varden; our chances are significantly weakened, even if they were just a motley collection of your average human, they had their uses."

Eragon did not miss the condescending tone when she referred to the humans. The now familiar rage built up inside him, bristling and tearing at its chains. Eragon very dearly wanted to leap across the small distance separating him from the queen and pummel her brain out with his fists. Regulating his breathing Eragon struggled to reign in his temper, he made no secret of his emotions: his jaw tense and his eyes hard, venomous. The elf queen raised one sculpted eyebrow at his conduct but made no mention of it. From the corner of his eye Eragon could see Arya sending him worried looks, momentarily forgetting her anger towards him.

Saphira quiescently urged Eragon on, lending him her mental fortitude, "_Calm yourself Eragon, fight this creatures influences, they do little to endear us to our allies." _

"_This imbecile of a woman will one day be brought low by her careless commentaries," _Eragon fumed quietly to Saphira

It was Arya who intruded on Eragon and Islanzadi's silent battle, "Mother, the rider and I have had an uncomfortable flight, coupled with troubling memories; we would retire with your blessing."

Islanzadi did not shuffle her gaze throughout her daughter's impeachment and when she did respond it as to Eragon, "Go, you look worn rider, we shall soon be settling; I shall make sure a tent is erected for you. You are dismissed."

**(Separate) **

Eragon turned on his heels without a backwards glance and made his way towards a small copse of trees he had seen from Saphira's back. Arya following in his wake like a lost child.

The sun was sinking low over the horizon, basking the world in a beautiful display of orange and red, marking its exit from the theatre of mortals.

Eragon set a brisk pace and they toiled in silence, Arya constantly keeping a certain distance between them. The trees, when they reached them, were young and small, still learning the lessons of growth. Leaning against the rough bark Eragon stumbled to the ground, the amiable weeds dancing against the skin of his forearm. He watched as Arya proceeded to sit down against the same tree, leaving their un-spoken gulf to separate the two. She was collecting her thoughts to make a complaint, Eragon could tell from her facial features.

"Do you ever think Shur'tugal? Offending the queen is a fool's errand," she demanded, looking over the horizon.

"You heard what she said: she had no right," he replied, as he stared at the side of her angular face, bewitched by her charm.

Sighing she said in a world weary voice, "Even still, our goal is difficult enough without internal conflict."

She said no more neither did Eragon.

Her gaze never shifted whilst Eragon turned his to watch the elves as they set up tents and accommodations for the night, some using magic others nothing but their hands. They were swift, quicker than the humans had ever been, helped as they were by the magic that ran deep in their blood.

Each moment reflecting the last, Eragon settled himself comfortably as he continued to enjoy the drama.

**(Small time lapse)**

The tents took not much longer and soon Eragon was rising to leave. Saphira slowly uncoiled herself and made to take flight.

"Farewell princess, I shall see you later," he murmured, his voice fading with the light.

Still refusing to look at him Arya quietly replied, "Take care Eragon... remember what you represent for those who are free, what you mean to them, never lose yourself to this _being_," her voice dropping even lower so that Eragon had to strain to hear, "Remember what you mean to me..."

Her eyes still looking anywhere but him.

Eragon considered her, his eyes shining with intensity, trying to solve the puzzle that was Arya.

Still. Silent.

He left.

**So what do you lot think? Good? Bad? One thing I need to know is Arya in character? Eragon is kind of OOC I know but I hate the stupid Eragon from the original IC. **


	10. Chapter 10

**How about that, I updated in a day! This Chap is important, which is quite odd. It explains a lot of things. Just one thing there will probably be mature scenes later; there will a warning before the chapter and scene.**

_Fear is such a weak emotion, that's why I despise it- _**Lupe Fiasco, From Words I Never Said**

Pain... an unending barrage of cold shoot through Eragon' setting each nerve tingling; a burning freeze racing to every extremity and hair length. A deep seated growl escaped his lips: not his. Deformed images of red swords, blue swords, shadowy faces, malicious intents, not human, not breathing; the icy grip of death rising from within enveloping all that was pure and untainted, leaving the doubt and misconception free reign.

Eyes white, with power and pain, unfurled like the petal of a dying lily. Blessed relief. This was not his cot.

_Where am I?_

Darkness clung to every facet of existence, tomes and scrolls, some charred, littered the friable floor, others the great desk ruling as the centre piece of the puzzle; said desk had a simple chair adjourned to the left of it, where a figure of dreams and nightmares reclined. Eragon approached warily, his beating heart producing the only melody of the void.

His link with Saphira was missing, the realization brought with it new fears, not a trace remained of it; all emotions were his own. Eragon ground to a halt, searching frantically for his dragon; panic soon sunk its claws deep into Eragon's resolve.

The figure spoke, "Why young man, come closer, we have but little time remaining," its voice was barely above a hiss, yet clear and strong, menacing and reassuring at the same time; no feeling.

Eragon's feet refused to obey. He stood perfectly still and watched, fascinated; he knew this... this _entity._

_The creature... the voice._

Saphira soon forgotten as wonder and revitalised fear ran rampant through his imagination. The power now registered, whatever it was it radiated a seemingly limitless amount of energy.

It looked up: no face, "Hurry yourself rider, Even my patience can be tested," and suddenly it was demanding, angry. It nodded slightly too where a chair, similar to the one _it _occupied, started to materialise.

_How did it do that?_

Curiosity snapped Eragon from the frigid clutch of fear. He moved. Each step a small shuffle to discovery. The distance waivered, and seemed to increase and decrease with every foot Eragon placed forward. With a lasting effort Eragon leaped forward and seized the chair by its arms, sudor from his labour dripped down his face. Eragon found himself to be panting, as if he had hiked since morn, not walked three steps. Collapsing into the hard back chair, he turned and stared at the _creature _it had not moved from its perch. Neither did it talk; Eragon took the opportunity to further scrutinize the being: it had no eyes and whilst, at first, Eragon had mistaken the darkness to be covering its face, closer inspection revealed the darkness to be its true face. The black cloak that had, from a distance, seemed to cover its body now looked alive, writhing and tearing at the air around it.

A chill tore its way up Eragon's spine, "What are you...?"

A dull throb resonated through the vicinity and Eragon realized it was laughing, "I have no name, ageless am I, I have existed since before time and will exist after," it stopped and read the disbelief in Eragon's eyes, "You do not believe me? I shall let you that I have never told a lie," it stopped again, as if to ponder its own words for hidden meanings, "However; it seems for the best that you are told some of my duties," a silence built up between the two, Eragon leaned in closer, "I believe you mortals once coined me as death? But then again it has been eons since I last talked to a mortal and you are the most fickle of beasts."

Its words struck Eragon like hammer blows, each firmer than the last, pushing him slowly backwards, in shock and awe.

_It cannot be._

"Death?" it came out as a squeak, never had such emotion filled Eragon, leaving him reeling in all directions, "Death has taken root within me?" before _it _could respond, Eragon continued, a plethora of questions questing for answers, "Why? What do you want with me?"

"Do not bestow undue praise upon yourself: you hold little interest to me," the laugh once again throbbing, this time within the confines of Eragon's skull, a dull ache arose, "I merely require a puppet," _it_ finished, as if simplicity was a vice only death could appreciate.

_Then again perhaps it is._

Raising his eyes to continue through the torrent of confusion, Eragon asked, "But why? What do you hope to achieve?"

Calm, dismissive, "I have seen the future and it burns, untold _death, _hopeless. One would think death is my joy, but no: reaping souls is but a job that I am forced to carry through, I take no pleasure in it; truth be told, I do not understand pleasure. But I do know the amount of work soon to face me; and it is unacceptable, my time is better spent than shepherding mortals," it paused, as to allow Eragon to soak the information in, "Do you now understand my motives? I wish to help you, but I cannot physically intervene: I need a vessel, I cannot be the instrument of the end; it breaks the laws of fate."

It stopped.

Hope and with it wariness began to erode the other emotions into submission. Eragon had to restrain himself from striking a fist into the air in joy.

_We have a chance._

His light headed happiness burst as something trickled through a lapse in his concentration, a new thought struck Eragon dumb, "You... you are death, you could bring the dead back, could you not?"

Thoughts of Brom, Garrow, Oromis, and _Roran_ and others he had lost brought tears to Eragon's eyes.

_He could bring them all bac- _

"No," death replied, cutting through Eragon's dreams, his voice filled with a firm steadiness, "I cannot and even if I could I would not."

"Why?" Eragon demanded; his throat sticky with renewed loss.

"Because I am not some pet of yours to fulfil your desires, I hold no love for you, I never shall. Love is such weak emotion, befitting only you and your pathetic mortals," it roared, contempt dripping from each spoken word."

Eragon reverted to silence, unwilling to tempt it; waiting for it to resume speaking.

"Let us forget this conversation... What of your sibling?"

"Sibling?" Eragon queried, "You are speaking of Murtagh?"

"Ah yes Murtagh," amusement oozed from it.

"What interest do you have in Murtagh?" Eragon asked, instantly wary. Despite everything a slight brotherly protectiveness took hold of Eragon.

It was quick to respond, as if to assure Eragon of its innocence, "I have no interest in him, but you do," it let the words sink in, "I only wish to understand your motives concerning the red rider, will you kill him? Branded a traitor?"

Eragon did not answer its question and instead asked his own, "I would have thought you to know what would occur in the future?"

"The future is written in sand, but a small wind can alter it; you know this."

Eragon shook his head, fighting to conceal his grin, "I write my future in stone."

Laughter, "An invigorating maxim; you hold wit human. So what will you do?"

Sighing, Eragon placed his head in his hands, many a conclusion battling for victory, "I know not."

Death watched him, carefully, Eragon thought it may have narrowed its eyes at him, if it had any, "If I may be so bold as to offer some advice: let not others push you to some rash decision; your brother and his dragon hold an important place in the future, the one not tainted by the king, spare him unless you have no other choice."

Eragon remained silent for a time: mulling over the discovery, deaths advice, the future, reality.

_So many paths stretch out before me. I fear I can do little but lose myself amongst them._

"Is that all?" Eragon finally asked, weary of conversation and envisioning his soft, comfortable cot.

"Not quite..." the creature whispered, its voice adopting a deleterious tone.

Sharp alertness brought Eragon careering back to conscience.

"This elf... woman in your life; you hold her close to your heart?"

Eragon went onto the defensive, trying to understand the beings sudden notice of Arya, "Yes," he replied, cautious, yet frank, "I love her very much."

"Yet she pushes you away," it pressed, eager, "Why do you keep hold of her? She brings nothing but pain; pain and distraction."

His shoulder dropping, as the familiar sadness filled Eragon, "Because I love her... Is there a nobler endeavour than unrequited love? Is there a purer emotion?"

Death ignored his sentiments and fought for a new line of thought, "What if I was to whisk her away from you? To the other side; never to meet her again. How does that sound? What do you feel at the thought? Nothing? Everything?"

Eragon did feel: he felt an utter desire to destroy this monster. Jumping forward, arms outstretched a savage snap of his teeth marking the outlet of rage. He scrambled his arms to the front, searching for a throat to wring, or arm to break. Reaching his target and... passing through it. Eragon found himself sprawled on the cold hard floor, his breathing harsh, his emotions tumultuous; a murderous glint in his eyes.

The creature was standing, incorporeal arms outstretched, "Maybe I shall at that, it might provide the motivation you require."

Darkness started to fringe Eragon's sight.

_Please not Arya!_

Then nothing.

**How was that? Interesting? Boring? Please tell. I would love some reviews, telling me what to improve and what to keep the same. Thanks.**


	11. Chapter 11

**Whoo another chapter in another day. I've set aside an hour a day for writing. I got 4 reviews for the last chapter; which I am very happy about, thanks for all the kind words. This is my favourite chapter so far. It is very short though. Expect some mistakes: I wrote this in less than 40 minutes.**

**Oh and **_**Restrained Freedom **_**I forgot to mention this but you asked if death had seen Murtagh whilst he was being tortured: death sees everything.**

**Hope you enjoy!**

_Not to relive them, just to remind you – _**Lupe Fiasco, Never Forget You. **

"Arya!"

Eragon catapulted skywards, his body drenched with sweat, with the faint essence of fear colouring his posture. The algid waft soon crystallised his pain, hardening it past eternity. He was in his tent, the simple yet elegant leather seemed to imprison his insecurities; exaggerate his boorish and fatuous emotions. He was shaking, drawing halting breaths; he strived to conquer his racing heart, as his life giving blood continued its now sluggish voyage. It was a simpleton's quest: control eluded his dulled reflexes and loss surmounted his being.

"Oh Arya..." it came out a chant, to some forbidden ritual, mirroring his relationship with the princess.

Head in hands, he persisted in his inaudible mutterings, nothing of consequences passing his lips; just the lashing pain and inner animosity. Eragon remembered little, another being forcing him to forget. His mind inhabited by feral thoughts, blending and separating the right from the wrong, from the evil and the righteous. Death was now prevalent within him; it's being feeding off Eragon's soul, copying him, changing what it willed, until a new entity built itself into his life, his thoughts and emotions now divided by a wall of unfathomable heights and power.

And yet all that mattered was the safety of one person, the safety of one elf. Death he could deal with; not hers.

_Arya, please be safe... for me._

Eragon could feel the timeless wisdom of the other rising through him, spreading to every to every nail of every finger. He should have been ecstatic. Yet the wisdom came with a price: love and hate replaced by casual disregard for life and death, drowning a lifetime of morals and teachings in razor edged logic; capable of acts of great kindness and even greater atrocities. It consumed him and burned through every recess of the living. Completely inhumane. Eragon lost himself in the ever changing tide; surrendered. And waited. And waited...

Salvation came with the unlikely intrusion of a Sapphire head through the bellicose entrance flaps. Hope suffused itself into Eragon's bloodstream and the grandeur of courage restored, defiant, willing to endure the perpetual scourge. He had a reason to exist; he needed to exist; for those trapped under Galbatorix, for those yet to suffer his black hand, his plague, he could end the suffering and usher in a new age of peace and harmony. He would.

Bracing himself against the torment and loss, Eragon pushed himself to his feet; swaying as he fought the inrush of vertigo. Saphira poured a stream of subdued energy, slowly heating his body and mind, tearing the confusion from the knowledge and beauty of life. Humbled, Eragon stumbled towards his saviour, his feet crushing the stench of defeat beneath his feet. He clung to the dragon's neck, pressed himself against her as to impeach his own clinging doubts, enduring till each vanished, with the beat of his traitorous heart. With the acceptance came the tears, wet, hot and hated. But a creep at first, developing into a furious flow, washing the misery down with them; only to disappear into the living shadows.

The sharp crackle of lightning illuminated dragon and rider, signalling the return of sound as the torrential downpour battered the vulnerable ground; destroying havens of ice and cold, removing the hard clung frost of days past.

And through it all Eragon shed his modesty and unravelled the chains of his heart and allowed the salty tears of relief and pain cascade down his cheeks, each a diamond cast by the light. He cried for his farm and his uncle, his father and Oromis, his cousins and their child, for his brother's suffering, for his lost life and... for his Arya...

_Arya... Arya... Arya..._

Her name a mantra accompanying each beat of his heart, as he reminisced on time spent with her, of her smile and heavenly laugh, even her alluring anger. He pushed his face into Saphira's hard, warm scales and took a deep steadying breath.

She blew warm air over his form, bringing his slightly damp hair to life, "_Oh little one..." _her words soothing and reassuring; speaking as a mother would. Warmth bloomed at her words, a spring of gratefulness welled up at Eragon's heart, only to be replaced with shock as she continued her monologue.

"_Arya is perfectly fine."_

Eyes wide open; Eragon flung his face to meet her large, glinting eyes. Desperation born; begging her words to be true.

"_No... It cannot be... the creature; death itself informed me of her demise."_

She keened quietly; her normally captivating eyes ignored as Eragon sought his truth; pleaded with the fates to allow his mistakes and wrongs, hoping with a painful tug for the dragoness's words to be realities trumpets.

She answered, slowly, as to allow no misinterpretation between them, "_I know not what to make of this being... but your thoughts clouded, shaded upon Arya's fate," _she paused and passed a compassionate embrace across their link, alleviating Eragon of undue suffering, "_You are closed from the world_, _allow your touch to wander and you shall find what you desire."_

Her words were heard, yet their implication escaped Eragon as his desperate thoughts arranged themselves; pieced her advice together, with painstaking precision, along the cut of an elven sword.

The coins dropped.

_**(Time Lapse)**_

The morning brought with it new life. Winters strangle hold momentarily lifted as nature prospered, aided as it was by the nights unforgiving rain. A fairy tale of happiness met Eragon's wake; a surge of memories overpowered his tapered defences. The pain, the loss and the eventual recovery, as Saphira moulded him back to creation, with her words of comfort and presence of will.

Death still lingered. He knew it always would; but neither did it overcome him; degrade him into a soulless puppet whose strings had been cut short. His emotions and feelings remained his own, guarded as he was from the taint of negligence that spread like a corrosive poison from every pore of death's intrusion. Eragon now possessed a counter balance. True there was no cure for death; yet a failsafe existed: and Eragon kept it close to his heart, nurturing it, exploring its depths and feats; his grip on humanity, on the right paths and on his destiny.

True no antidote existed.

But he had the next best thing.

A barrier. He smiled and stepped into the light, blinded: like the future.

**So... How was it? Leave a review, really appreciate them. I am really starting to hate the previous chapters, I was so unsure when I wrote those (having never written a story) but I feel my writing and confidence has come a long way in the newer chapters and the older ones feel inadequate.**


	12. Chapter 12

**I wasn't originally going to post this today, but then I thought fuck it. Sorry but the poetic feel of the last two chaps is coming down by quite a bit: Eragon has come back to reality and really if we are honest with ourselves life is struggle; no such thing as fairy tale endings in real life, if your story ever ends it's with your death. If someone told me I was going to be writing (or reading for that matter) stories last year I would have called them a crack head, but writing and self education really turned my life around from ending up as just another face selling crack to kids on the corner. Eragon begins his, sort of, fresh start in this chapter as well, some of the emotions and events in later chapters may draw from my own experiences, may.**

**Hope You Enjoy.**

_The world is volatile and the street is my education – _**Immortal Technique; this line really speaks for my life and motives. I have mad respect for kids trying to escape from harsh upbringings.**

It was some days later that Eragon found himself sitting, impatient and filled with fickle anxiety, at the impressive, smooth edged table that occupied the elves command tent; the ostentatious aura hinting at beginnings denied to its peers. Its light reflected that of the elven aristocracy who graced the simple yet handsome chairs, emerging at precise intervals from the monarch table, with their haughty presence, some still decorating Eragon with the occasional glower of scorn. Eragon ignored them, his new found respect for purity overshadowing others rejection.

_No news is good news, thus I can be pleasantly surprised._

They were awaiting the information Eragon had craved with zealous vigour for many a nights: the state of the Varden. Understandably the mood in the immediate vicinity was tense, focused, with little trickle of emotion escaping the universal mask the elves shared; the mask Eragon had come to loathe as night did the rising sun; insecurity had forced Eragon to bare his pains and the shameless disregard of other people with theirs served to inflame Eragon and fuse his heat with his neighbours bitter licks. Exhaling heavily through his right nostril, as to expel any shrouded anger, Eragon centred his attention on the woman who had commandeered his worry for every liberated second of freedom. Arya. Her residence had endured opposing his since their last solemn conversation, since her breach of etiquettes, her inner secrets and her _care._

She met his gaze with curious eyes, eyes that drew Eragon into her soul and enigmatic person; Brown and green, melding and rupturing, like the leaf that fell from its haven, in an adventure born of guileless age, seeking the brown of the ground with a naive haste. They held. Sailing himself across her entire pupil, desperate longing erupting along the chaotic edge of Eragon's thoughts, spreading with incandescent warmth along the river of nerves.

She turned. The moment bursting at the seams. In breathing acknowledgement, Eragon craned his neck over her features and resumed his fast, joining with Saphira in the process; the 'exalted' dragoness had forsaken the meeting for the thrill of the hunt, relying on Eragon to feed her information.

If asked later Eragon would have only the ability to recount a handful of events from the congregation. Whether it was the snowy white softness of Islanzadi's cape, as it mimicked the flutters of a live bird with each minute movement; or the dangerous glint of the ceremonious dagger, placed on the table by a richly enrobed elf lord, that harshly reminded him of the painful beauty of Zar'roc; or even the slight ridges of Arya's chin, that devoured his eyes in their complexity.

Memory refused to accept more than one event into its embrace: the ripple of scrying pools, resembling rushing waves of destruction; as the darkness ebbed away. Eragon straightened his back with small crack as the stressed, worn likeness of Nausuada painted the slowly stilling pools. Elves around the table mumbled quietly amongst themselves at Nausuada's shocking appearance: sweat and grime coloured her naked arms whilst lone strands of her hair hid her eyes from those gathered, what may have been blood stained her slightly torn tunic. She looked up and Eragon recoiled: her eyes were dead, trembling with exhaustion; straining, she surveyed the circumference of the room, her eyes lingering on Eragon, who in turn gave her a small - almost imperceptible – nod. She seemed to draw strength from his resolve; new life entered her gaze and her posture relaxed into easy confidence.

"Islanzadi," a small curtsey springing from her, she sounded brittle, yet the quick intelligence behind her words could not be ignored.

Eragon restrained his own aching questions; Roran's fate violently pushed down from whence it came, he did not fool himself: his cousin was expendable where any other was concerned.

Islanzadi proudly inclined her head, a tiny amount, before responding in a carefully constructed voice, "Nausuada, word of your defeat is quite a blow in these dark days; would you care to explain your position?"

The old antagonism for Islanzadi welled up inside Eragon; his admiration for Nausuada grew at the amount of control she managed to portray; warding the small shuffle of her shoulders she remained emotionless.

"Certainly, as you know Galbatorix attacked us but a few days past," here she paused, her expression frozen, as if reliving some sinister nightmare, "he... he annihilated us... on his whims... never have I experienced so much death," her resolve tipped on the edge of a knife, then balanced again, her expression hardening like crystallising ice, "He is a strange man: Galbatorix, not what I expected, he seemed almost... almost saddened by the death, I may have seen regret... perhaps."

Islanzadi waved her hand dismissively at her recount of their foe, assured of her own opinions; to Eragon they held little water, "The false king is an apt deceiver," the queen's tone imperious, surely aloft, "Kindly continue your tale."

Nausuada's bearing acquired a harsh portrait and Eragon silently hoped for a swift and brutal retaliation; it never came, "As you wish; the aftermath of the attack left a little less half of our original force. Fearing another attack we retreated to Feinster, where at the very least there would be a wall between us and the enemy," she sighed, as defeat crept into her body, "We still number in the thousands, yet nowhere near enough, nowhere," Her jaw went slack as the deprivation of recent worries sunk in.

The inhabitants of the command tent pondered her words, renewing their chances cataloguing the new discoveries. For the first time Eragon questioned Galbatorix's character.

_What kind of man is he really?_

And then, dreading the answer, Eragon unburdened his heart of the hefty weight of Roran and Katrina's fate. A sweat riveting his tense jaw.

Understanding and compassion warmed Nausuada's eyes, "I don't know Eragon," she admitted, "Warriors continue to arrive from the surrounding countryside, as of yet Roran has not been amongst them... I am truly sorry; any news and I will inform you immediately," she promised him, her words still struck Eragon numb.

Hidden hope once again pushed viciously to the corner of his mind, as sorrow spread through his bones and equal amount of callous disregard from the other locked in bitter conflict over dominance of feelings.

Eragon raised his eyes. Arya was staring at him, her face softening at his examination; she gave a small, mournful, smile, reassurance passing between them.

The rest of the meeting passed into unidentifiable noise for Eragon, each spoken word a rain drop amongst countless others, immersed in each other's whisper, faint, for the ear of their brethren.

Pushing his neck backwards, Eragon sighed, closed his eyes and neglected the living.

**Hope you enjoyed. Please leave a review. This chap was extremely difficult to write, I had to really stretch it out and it is still barely above a thousand words. I took some liberties with Galby's character; I hate the black and white enemy that Galby is normally seen as. My Galby is a torn person; you shall see. I also put a small little metaphorish reference to Murtagh in here: a sentence with double meaning, it refers to the brother's relationship, it is one of my favourite sentences, tell me if you find it. Thanks for reading.** **Point out any errors.**


	13. Chapter 13

**An hour a day for writing has to be my best idea in the last 5 months! This chap might be a tad lighter than the ones before it; I am really happy right now: had a really good fight/bout, for me anyway, can't talk for the other guy. That said I am quite tired right now so expect some mistakes (I didn't proof read this, I would appreciate it if you guys could). I am, again, trying to cut back on the imagery and poetic phrasing.**

**Hope you enjoy.**

Strapped in tight, snug as a sheathed sword, Eragon could do little to combat the buffeting wind and was forced to endure its torment, hoping Saphira's escapade would not expand further; she had been uncharacteristically reserved following Eragon's encounter with Death, whether in deep thought or denial, was lost to Eragon; instead he humoured her, his brush with his own mortality had instilled a deep reverence for others privacy, reinforced as it already was by Oromis's late missives and his intriguing relationship with Arya. One could perhaps tempt fate, but he could not influence its decisions, neither could he hope to break its lure; the philosophy was a simple one and now encompassed any and everything Eragon partook in: whether love or war.

_We can pick the game, but we cannot change the rules._

Saphira's tilted acrobatics temporarily severed his train of thought: bubbles of exhilaration tore from his stomach and forced him to tighten his strangle hold on the mottled, glistening sea of scales at his face, each duplicating the perfect wave brought on by winters awing clutch. The weightlessness was short-lived; Saphira balanced on the tip of one diaphanous wing, tenderly kissing the precious air, and then turned upright, causing the unique thrill of airborne acrobatics to fade like a child's memory. An insatiable greed for air compelled Eragon to gulp down, with heaving effort. Another memory presented itself to him: one of Saphira grimly circling him, agitation marking her limbs; each step a small earthquake upon the soft dilapidated soil; Eragon winced as he relived the death of a patrol of unfortunate ants, who, in their simplistic nature, had drew too close to Saphira's descending, cumbersome, feet. He swallowed before the imminent conversation and then immersed himself in the tidal flow of memories, each passing by with glaring speed.

_**(Flashback Starts)**_

"_Eragon," _she said, deceivingly innocent, her large eyes humming with inordinate intensity.

"_Yes?" _suddenly wary, thieving through their recent conversations for any cause for offence.

Saphira's low rumbling laughter sounded at his caution, it was well placed, "_Do you remember who I am?"_

"_Off Course; what are you implying?" _Eragon asked, confused at her question.

She lowered her head until they were eye level; some mysterious emotion roared across her ocular; Eragon watched, transfixed at the colour of her emotions. Others could not understand there bond, it went beyond mere intimacy; even death feared the separation, unwilling to concur their wrath. Scales shimmered has light travelled gracefully over them, murmuring of their magnificence. She stood: frozen.

"_Why then do we not take advantage of this momentary peace and fly you and I?"_

Eragon's eyes widened in incredulous disbelief; a brief chortle erupted and blanketed the small glade. Saphira's eyes hardened: two breathing diamonds.

Raising his hands to placate her, Eragon fought to control his amusement, "Saphira," a gasp interrupted him as his sobs of joy continued their spree, "Saphira... is that really what has been troubling you? All you had to do was ask," sobering, Eragon turned to her with impeaching eyes, willing her to understand his, never dying, love for her, "I have wished to share a flight with you for some time now," he whispered, compassion leaking from his mouth; it was the truth, he could never lie to her.

Drawing back Saphira had spread her wings, letting a childish excitement run rampant over their link.

"_Come."_

_**(Flashback Over)**_

And that was how Eragon found himself pressed against her hard back, thousands of feet in the air, hanging like two celestial bodies from the heavens. They had needed this; the peace and constant bond provided only this high in the sky. Eragon sighed and let himself break. What may or may not have been his drifted through his mind: Durza's maroon, glinting, eyes, the shadows of death, the raspy threats, Arya's face as she rejected him, Saphira as she rebuilt him, misery poured through his soul as he reminisced on Carvahall and his life before tales of old and elves took hold of his future.

_Perhaps when this is all over Carvahall... can be restored._

He would like that, if not for him than at least for those who had suffered on his account. His thoughts sailing over the sea of emotions, coming to rest on his recent duel with Arya; he smiled pride coming to wake.

_**(Flashback Starts)**_

It was the moving shadows upon the leaf crowded ground that had first alerted him of the incoming blow; he bent, like a sycamore dancing in the melodious wind; a sharp, precise blast of air signified the passing elven blade, missing his throat by mere inches. Startled emerald orbs replaced the sword before them, raging forward Eragon made to crash her to the ground, but it was not to be: her nimble footwork allowed her to elude the charging bull.

"Faster!" she demanded.

Eragon had discovered the contrasting method of teaching from his previous teacher early in their 'lessons'. Arya was impatient, a vice condoned by her people, but also thorough: she processed every shade of Eragon's style, even had him surrender certain habits such as allowing his free arm to dangle by his side. "It is an obvious weakness," she had explained, disapproval clear in her voice at any flaw Eragon displayed. Arrogance was also present, not as strong as Vanir's but there nonetheless; her inherent intolerance was barely acceptable, quick to annoy, even quicker to anger: she reacted violently to any slight she suspected Eragon of and would proceed to effortlessly defeat his blade, many times humiliating him at the same time. Yet despite her subterfuge, her care for Eragon was evident, she made no secret of it, even mentioned it from time to time; not passion but care, not what he desired but what he required. Her friendship was now prominent and Eragon felt her offer held more to it than what one first thought: it was an apology, and forgiveness.

Eragon nearly lost his grip on Brisingr with her next flurry; her strength and speed astounding him again, reaching deep inside him Eragon loosed a savage sweep, the air around Brisingr buzzing with excited energy... it was blocked. However it took a force of will and Eragon watched, amazed, as a lone drop of sweat emerged, its salty sting lost in the silk of hair, another soon followed the first. She was tiring.

Yet their battle continued for what felt like an eternity, unleashing his frustration with each swipe, denying his need with each blocked. They moved in and out of contact as if they were two mad spirits performing a sensuous dance, rehearsed not improvised. Two crowned fates colliding.

It was glorious.

But nothing lasted.

Arya parried a sharp thrust and, with a terse snap of her arm, flung Brisingr from Eragon's grip. Eragon collapsed, exhaustion setting in; but what surprised him was Arya's state: she was panting! Her chest expanding as she took redeeming breaths.

"Arya...?" he asked, slightly worried.

"Well fought Shadeslayer," she said, "I believe there might have been some effort on my part this time," she concluded.

Eragon had frowned at her words: searching for hidden meanings. Only for her twinkling eyes to admit her sincerity.

He laughed.

_**(Flashback Over)**_

Eragon found himself smiling; Saphira's own emotions mirroring his.

She let loose a short, intense flame: incinerating the air foolish enough to face her.

A roar marked her territory.

**There job done. Review please, tell me what clicks and doesn't. M&T pov soon, thanks to **_**Restrained Freedom's **_**help.**


	14. Chapter 14

**Sorry for not posting for awhile. I went out with friends two days ago and needless to say something quite big came up; I came home seriously pissed and maybe a tad murderous. Lol. I didn't want to ruin this very important chapter with my own messed up emotions at the time. So I waited. Hope you like it. Point out any mistakes.**

It was the ringing call of the elven war drums that tore through Eragon's concentration, as he sat mediating upon the harsh stump of a once proud pine; the mournful keens, resonating through the still air, filled Eragon with itinerant trepidation, chilling the flaming desire of naive life forms inhabiting, the once tranquil clearing, with its unwelcome logic. Eragon stood; his thigh tasting the angry sting of the juvenile weeds that marked the supple ground to Eragon's left side. Unease and malignant terror pursued Eragon as he turned his gaze towards the distant elven camp; searching for the tell tale signs of a battle: it was peculiarly calm. Surprised Eragon narrowed his eyes and shaded his vision in an effort to detail the flash of movement at the north entrance: scurrying figures poured from the small gate, resembling the lithe and finesse of desert spectres. The molten cold of winter set Eragon's bones alight, each begging for the dousing presence of movement; startled and worried, Eragon broke into a dead run, heels clicking and elusive pines swaying and jeering as he passed, mocking the abyss separating Eragon from the camp.

A poorly structured step resulted in the backwards pull of his ankle, slowing his already abysmal progress.

_Damn!_

Gathering his thoughts, Eragon sent tendrils of thought licking through the web of space and time; seeking Saphira with a devout determination. She had forsaken Eragon's company a few hours into his meditation, preferring the verbal trickery and patronizing praise of elven society; and that was where he found her: urgently conversing with a guarded conscious, which could only be female.

"_Saphira! Come get me; quick!" _

"_Eragon!" _she roared in response, her afterthoughts paralyzed Eragon, _"Murtagh and Thorn approach."_

Ice seemed to crawl up Eragon's legs, freezing his fear in place... before the fires of vengeance thawed purpose. Sending her an image of his immediate surroundings and a glint of his haste; he stooped to waiting, heart heavy with the ordeal to come, contemplating each and every blow; confidence in new found abilities overshadowing the musk of previous defeats, faith in Arya and the elves showering the retreating coherence of dismay.

He could do this. He would. Death clawed at its hackles; demanding release, perhaps sensing the death to come and aching to relish the spectacle from the eyes of deliverance. Eragon stood firm: he would not release this spawn of hell, not when breath still lit his lungs. _Its_ hopeless assault soon abating, but not before one last, veiled, threat.

"_You will regret this..."_

Eragon ignored it: Saphira was steadily approaching, her flight lowering as the distance between them disappeared; fully outfitted for war, the gleaming steel reflected fates designs, tiny droplets, containing purity, clung desperately to each proud plate. Another occupied her back, a familiar, blue-haired male, repelling the attacking light with his thick fur and hide: Blödhgarm. Eragon smiled, chance conspired against Murtagh.

The Sapphire dragoness hovered slightly in front of Eragon, before striking the ground like a heavenly bolt of lightning. Scrambling forward, Eragon gripped the outstretched arm and hauled himself into the saddle. Saphira took flight without wait. Turning slightly Eragon hailed the elf behind him; inquiring after purpose and Murtagh.

"We all thought two would make for advantageous odds," he shrugged as if it was obvious, then craned his neck a point and painted the direction of Murtagh and Thorn's course, "The red pair are quite close now," a clear, resilient hatred laced his words; one Eragon could understand, yet not replicate. Not completely. Not anymore.

The roaring red blur of Thorn was easily distinguished against the blue tinged sky; the red pair's outline seemed to glow with suppressed power, a strange black surge shot from Thorn's left flank before settling back into the jewelled hide; their light caused a unnatural illumination of the nearing background. The odd show soon died away with the weak protest of the wind and Saphira and Thorn raged towards each other: all muscle, teeth, claw and tail. They were so close now; Eragon could describe each and every ripple and scale adjourning Thorn's back, the razor rage of foes imprinting his eyes, the sharp _clink _as his claws unfurled, like the arms of a dying spider, seeking blood. Hardening his heart, Eragon switched his gaze from dragon to rider: Murtagh; a red haze passed over his vision as he scrutinised the red rider.

A faint, victorious, hiss erupted from within, "_Yessss..." _

Eragon fought to regain control of his actions as the ever decreasing distance waivered. Murtagh was endowed under heavy armour, his heart produced a cacophony of excitement as each detail sunk in; separate plate of steel murmured in choreographed brilliance, thick, cold greaves covered his shin and, forcing his gaze upwards, Eragon discovered a defiant helm crowning Murtagh's head; Eragon grimaced as he remembered their last encounter.

The difference now minute, Eragon tensed, unspent energy coiled deep within his muscles: tearing for escape.

Eragon loosed a wild roar and connected his mind with Blödhgarm's, who in turn joined with a host of land bound elves: indulging both Eragon and himself in a giddy, euphoric rush of power, its mountainous authority capturing Eragon, transforming Eragon.

A vessel of fate.

The collision came with a rip of power and godly rapture; scales split and bones cracked as waves of pain racked both dragons and both riders; Blödhgarm jolted and crashed into Eragon's back, as the torrent of strength dissipated through the unfortunate bodies of victims. Faces locked in fierce scowls, Eragon and Murtagh drew their swords, displaying keen edges and ravenous appetites that only virgin steel could induce. Brisingr ignited with one word, Eragon hammered it towards Murtagh with crystal intent, each millimetre absorbing his own fear. Zar'roc was raised with a gentle flick of Murtagh's wrist; both blades merged upon impact with jarring energy. Raising it backwards, Eragon once again sliced towards Murtagh only to have it blocked as easily as before. Saphira and Thorn soon disengaged, each harrowing the other with stained claws and flexed tails in one final push towards success. Eragon took the brief respite to steal breaths through clenched teeth. Blödhgarm settled calmly behind him, focusing on the arcane side of their confrontation. Murtagh ignored the blue elf and instead addressed Eragon.

"I see you have a new blade; seems as if your friendship with these forest rats has its advantages," his voice contained a hard edge, taunting appearance; as if he expected, desired a response. The specifically structured insult had obviously been rehearsed; something that confused Eragon. Shaking himself and denying any response, Eragon prepared for their second, bitter, conflict; the metallic hint of blood subjected his throat when teeth pierced flesh. The nicking of blades and clink of armour, married by hard thuds and draconic roars soon drowned the sound of thoughts and wit. Yet Eragon could not fully shake his doubts over their engagement: Murtagh's posture held a contained aura, his fighting had been strictly defensive from the start; a style Murtagh had always loathed, seen as cowardly.

_Is he holding back?_

Dropping further questions Eragon parried a quick re-thrust towards his ribs with the bare edge of Brisingr. Another bout of swords followed their last and Eragon accumulated a shallow cut upon his thigh, blood soaked his pants; he wasn't the only one dripping blood: Murtagh carried a series of nicks upon his chest, where his mail had been cleaved, a dark stain spread over the tunic underneath.

Retreating from their exchange of blows, Murtagh whispered a short phrase and held his ground as energy lit the wheels of magic. Incorporeal wisps of billowing shadows embraced his form and cloaked him from Eragon's eyes. Whispering thoughts and secrets emerged from the shadowy existence; soon it expanded its rule over Thorn's huge frame, blotting his ruby eyes from prying individuals. Desperate, Eragon slashed through the darkness, almost shouting in victory, as Brisingr burned through skin and flesh; coil and mail split with inaudible snaps as Brisingr continued its journey, leaving white hot pain in its wake. A tormented scream emitted from the pulsating disguise: Murtagh.

Eragon watched: bewildered as the thick, leeching, darkness began to abate.

...

...

...

Then it disappeared... everything... Murtagh, Thorn, shadows, everything.

Eragon's mouth fell open in disbelief; Saphira's own shock fused with his.

_What in hellfire just happened?_

_**(Time lapse and different location: Uru'baen. M&T POV)**_

"It is done, my lord," Murtagh whispered, his whole body humming with slowly receding energy.

"Very good," replied the man opposite him, "Your little brawl has provided us with vital information; I am impressed Murtagh; perhaps there is hope for you yet."

Murtagh bristled at the words and almost replied with his own cutting insults, before sanity reared its head.

Galbatorix had already lost interest in Murtagh and was now reverently watching the midnight black, curious object resting upon the raised pedestal, a frenzied longing drawing his features in a new light.

Murtagh retraced his own gaze: transfixed.

**Yeah this is a long chap for me, so what did you lot think? Review please. So **_**Restrained Freedom**_**, what did you think of my Murtagh? Happy or not? I know it is little to go on for now, but any thoughts are welcome. It will probably be an M&T POV next. I did not proof read this; I hope you guys can do that for me. Thanks for reading and reviewing. **


	15. Chapter 15

**An M&T POV. I hate this chap: It feels messed it up, emotionally and in quality of writing. This POV was supposed to come in CHP 3, but I never could understand Murtagh and still don't; his character doesn't work with me. **_**Restrained Freedom **_**really helped me with Murtagh. Some things are explained here, but nothing too exciting. Please point out any mistakes. Review and tell me what clicks and doesn't. Galby is a torn character and Murtagh will discover more about himself throughout my story, he is a confused character.**

"So if the solution has never been to look in yourself, how is it that you expect to find it anywhere else?" – **Immortal Tech**

Uru'baen was a city alight with imprisoned beauty; the murky, serpentine rivers and squalid market stalls could only hope to conceal the hidden gem; never destroy. The impeccably white tower of Galbatorix's palace rose above the din of humanity, defiantly challenging disobedience and chaos: for if ever there was a word to describe Uru'baen, it was orderly. Nobles and peasants alike populated the bowels of the great, once elven, city; whilst soldiers and guards upheld the law, backed by the iron fist of state control. Uru'baen was special: perhaps the only city, within the bountiful borders of the Empire, to exist with a stern cohesion between lord and vassal; a place where the domineering pleasure places hosted the audacious meeting of prince and pauper; where one man's vision dictated fates whims, a man feared by his enemies and his subjects for his brutal methods of vengeance, yet respected: for who else, but a great man, could unite one fledgling nation beneath him? Was he not great when his presence empowered order and balance? Truly he was a worthy king as the city of Uru'baen prospered as he steered the vessel with fairness and righteous justice; a great warrior he was, with an insatiable thirst for revenge, but he was not the epitome of evil. No, he was a man as any other, with his vice and his virtues.

_Then why do some men claim the rebels to be of right mind?_ _When all they bring is chaos and death? When their armies consist of foreign warriors, Urgals and fiendish elves: the greatest perversions of nature? Whose mysterious magic would spell only disaster for the human race. Why should elves and dwarves decree man's fate? Because of their heightened prowess and congenital arrogance? Why not settle for their caves and forests? Which god gave them the right to invade the human realm? Why does Eragon uphold their aristocracy? Why trust elves and dwarves, when their lack of trust is clear?_

Angry swarms of questions whirred through Murtagh's mind, each an irrational sting of irritation, burrowing and splintering deep beneath his skin, left to fester for days to come; haunting him with ghostly visages and paining worries; an itch that kept him awake, one that spilled over to Thorn; causing each day to pass with the same, excruciating, searching and distressing. Peace was found within oneself; yet what of the source? Who suffered for another's peace?

With a heavy sigh, Murtagh transferred his weight onto his left elbow, resting at a crooked angle as he observed the art blemishing the precipitous walls of the cavernous throne room. His eyes followed each stained colour, tracing the rough edges and sullen faces, culminating in the crude depiction of draconic glorification: shaking his head wistfully, Murtagh once again wondered at the king's stale taste in art. His obsession with dragons was something that had always escaped investigation.

A ruby bolt shot past the large, picturesque window as Thorn raced the exterior of Uru'baen; an eccentric, new hobby of his. The ridges of his wounds had been healed and Saphira's battering no longer coursed through his veins, only memory storing the encounter.

"_Careful," _he _murmured_ to the dragon. No response was returned and Thorn soon flew out of sight. Leaving Murtagh to his own ringing thoughts.

Troubling images flashed over Murtagh's vision, the same, burning, questions presenting themselves. Releasing a deep, violent groan, Murtagh tore his conscious back into control; trembling for an articulate state of mind: his hands started to shake; clamping them to the edge of the windowsill, Murtagh defeated his raging heart and wormed for a new subject to focus upon. The black membranes of the whispering stone exposed itself to Murtagh, again. Its sinister pull had been stringing Murtagh for most of the afternoon: the stone, the one that had promised Galbatorix a miracle, when he had first embarked on the war against the riders; promised him power... power and miracles: a resurrection. Jarnunvösk had been promised: a missing link would be restored; a doubtful pact, but one Murtagh and any rider could understand and sympathies with. Galbatorix had danced to the tune set, yet the goal was no closer as when it was given.

The power achieved was never in doubt.

The stone had been silent for years; allowing Galbatorix free reign since their unfortunate meeting. Until recently: demanding that Galbatorix tested the blue rider; envisioning spectacular power: power that would influence the confrontation, deliver them victory in their quests. The intricacies had confounded Murtagh; neither he or Thorn knew what they had, supposedly, discovered within Eragon and – Murtagh suspected – nor did Galbatorix. They had plunged, blinded, into a pit of snakes, the comforting embrace of the Eldunari sorely missed. Fortunes grace had resulted in a shrouded success, of that they had been assured. What it entailed had yet to be revealed.

Once again cursing his own naivety, Murtagh turned sharply on his heels and slowly worked his way to his abode. The pattering of feet and silence of each gloomy hall passed, soon lulled him into a passive state, where random memories and emotions flitted and disappeared. At one point he passed a, forlorn looking, Galbatorix. Murtagh inclined his head, ever so slightly: he was ignored and forgotten.

_No different from anything else in my life_

Resuming his automatic journey, Murtagh took a turn and pressed out into a cold hallway, rooms branching of like slender fingers, each a new adventure. Thorn's absence was now extended; even his thoughts had disappeared, floating across the fabric of distance. Grimacing at his own isolation, Murtagh sped his steps, his rooms weren't far now. The lined wood of his door now visible against the steadily darkening hallway. The dark had never frightened Murtagh, but it seemed almost alive; differences stark from the norm. This was no natural day, or night.

Slipping through the gaping hole left by the door; Murtagh stumbled into his chambers, the smug glow of the candles biting at his exposed flesh.

_So smug..._

Zar'roc unclipped and flung across the, came to rest upon a chest of utensils, the dangerous edge glinting suspiciously as darkness dulled its reflexes and torment softened its blows.

Collapsing onto the velvet bed, Murtagh receded into calm stillness. Dark fringed his sight, before the demons of his past leapt.

Murtagh lost focus.

**Hope you enjoyed. Really hard chap to write. Didn't proof read either. It is very short as well. **


	16. Chapter 16

**Sorry about the wait, am trying to get a place at a college. Last chap was a bit iffy; but Im going to leave it as it is. I don't like this chap it's a bit too fluffy and soft hearted for my taste but I guess I need it and perhaps it is a bit OOC. M&T POV every 3-4 chaps. Eragon and M&T POV are probably the only POVS Im going to use (Maybe Nausuada a few times) No Arya because any POV from her ruins the mystery of her character and feels OOC. So yeah I was watching **_**Rise Of The Foot Soldier**_** just before this and man that film is fucking raw. Go and check it out: covers crime really realistically, just so you know it is very heavy on gore, violence, sex and language with some wicked torture scenes so you kiddies be careful. Just so you guys know this chap is a couple of weeks after Eragon vs Murtagh. Hope you Enjoy. Did not proof read. **

A veil of bewilderment transcended upon the elven army following Murtagh's disappearance: their fate was unknown and the tense mood demonstrated it. The low note of muttering gripped society as each wondered at this new and mysterious power of Galbatorix. The forests became sombrely calm and the once mischievous happiness of the flitting elves dampened as each trudge through the sludge of winter carried them closer and closer to Uru'baen; the black city and heart of misery, its intangible arms almost resembling dark magic as they played on weak minds and weaker doubts. Heightened prowess allowed the elves to cover more ground than the humans had ever achieved, but it was forced: far from their enemy they could forgo their fears, whilst at the same time filtering the taste of victory through their bodies, they could fool themselves, like the trickster at cards, and hope freely for heavenly light, some divine miracle; for the light always vanquished the dark, was it not true? What tale allowed those of evil fortitude to succeed? Every story ended with, those of righteous ideals, celebrating and making merry.

Yet this was no tale... No light prevailed the shroud of darkness and Eragon inched closer to the end with no easy solution, even the hard bitten determination had loosened its vice and now worry planted its seeds through his dreams, each taking root and blossoming with times aid. Saphira drew further from him with each passing day as she trawled through her own unruly emotions and Arya... Arya had all but forsaken Eragon's company; she spoke little and deemed any interaction between the two a waste of effort, she had stopped seeking Eragon for conversation and friendship leaving him floundering as he thought a remedy for her behaviours. He had ventured to asking of her location for peace of mind, however each encounter left Eragon in mute helplessness at Arya's grim silence and acute annoyance at his presence. Their uncomfortable charade developed into an intolerable wall as each waded through the murky depths of their characters; it became hindering to both the war and coexistence. And it was thus that Eragon found himself standing upon a petrified and jagged cliff, overlooking a vast section of forest, each treetop resembling fallen clouds, with their dreamy swaying and inconsistent exterior and their rough barks, lined with the burden of time and neglect, echoing their fabled endurance.

Arya sat, cross-legged, with her hands folded inconspicuously in front of her, her back rigid and tense with tempered emotion as she gazed over the ocean of bark and leaf with a detached semblance. She had denied Eragon's being for the last few minutes, content with the icy breeze and smooth stones as her only companions: clearly Eragon was not welcome. But that had never stopped him before. Sighing, Eragon placed himself carefully to her immediate right, forgoing the traditional greeting in favour of prolonging the familiar quiet. He followed her transfixed glare and closely graced the unmoving environment with yet another admirer: the calloused bark of the trees now seemed to murmur reassurance to each other as Eragon's eyes followed each detailed scripture distinguishing the worn wood; it was a fantastic mirage one that welled inspiration within Eragon: this world was worth fighting for, when there were creatures and sights so easy on the eyes then it was a place worth the blood of sacrifice and the fire of revolution. His indiscernible waft of thoughts soon turned from the beauty and grandeur of nature to the beauty of the elven princess who sat excruciatingly close to him yet at the same time created mountains between them. She had yet to look at him, her eyes had remained fixed on some insignificant aspect of natures ever resilient splendour; his breathing increasing and heart thumping Eragon felt his devotion and care surfacing as he beheld the jewel presented before him, he had never believed in perfection, but she would convert him. Arya appeared to sense his praise: for she shuffled further away from him and turned her troubled face away from his gaze, in an effort of concealment; Eragon felt the slight beginning of pain at her actions accompanied as it was by the anger at her subtle rejection.

"What is it that you require of me Shadeslayer?"

Her, masked and foreign, voice only served to increase Eragon's anguish and rage: he refused a response and continued his intense inquiry of her soul and hidden facets of emotion. She baffled him with her withdrawal; their bond had been closer than ever... only for it to vanish with Murtagh's entrance.

_What has gone wrong? Wherein settles the fault?_

His mental musings allowed Arya time to turn one, shaded, emerald towards his face, before quickly flickering it back; her countenance soon adopting an impatient outlook as she awaited Eragon's answer. The entrancing curve of her hip slowly rotating as she fixed him with the sight of her back. Eragon did not miss the almost hostile glaze covering her features.

_Or perhaps regret? I do not understand this woman. Damned mystery she is._

In a flash of activity Eragon regained his feet, the unforgiving hardness of the ground catapulting him upwards as if relieving themselves of a punishing weight.

"Perhaps... once... I thought me may have been friends," he halted, stumbling over quickly forgotten words, as Arya turned to face him, her features inscrutable save for the fickle show of disappointment and loss, before it to faded into oblivion; Eragon fought to regain his ability of speech, "I see now the flaw in my assumptions."

She remained still as a dwarven statue, her face set in lifeless lines. With a sad shake of his head, Eragon forced his feet to carry through the thick bramble covering the beginning of the cliff face; rampant sense of loss and misery coursing through his cold blood.

She quietly called after him, "Eragon," he stopped, but did not turn to face her, "There be no friendships in war, nor in a cold world as this; look around you: life is no sunshine and rainbows, reality poses no sunshine and rainbows; life is struggle. Do not ask for what you cannot have for there is no fire to light it."

Eragon snorted deliriously her words, "Then perhaps you haven't looked hard enough princess."

He continued walking. Above his head the twilight mated with the pockmarked sky.

**So what did you think? Let me know.**


	17. Chapter 17

**Some bad news: I got a place at college so the updates may come once a week from now on. Anyway Eragon thinks out his reasons for fighting in this war and if he is right; he comes across some roadblocks you see. This story is only going to get darker for the immediate future, just to let you know. I do have a bit of problem: I have a beginning, middle and an ending, but the glue between is giving some trouble. Lol. Anyway point out any mistakes. Please let me know what you think. I made a very small remark to Arya and Murtagh in this during Eragon's thoughts**

_What kind of man is he? He must have some redeeming virtue. For he is still a man._

The days following his encounter with Arya gave Eragon ample time to ponder over his role in the conflicts gone and ones yet to come; the originally black and white mentality now stood distorted: crippled like a veteran of war; for now another questioned his motives, the devil of his past and the deathly veil of his future collided as each tried to make sense of position and responsibility, of what was right and what was wrong. A pillar of light shone through the darkest recesses of Eragon's mind, bringing clarity to shrouded subjects and discussions. Until now Galbatorix had been whatever Oromis, the elves and the Varden had claimed he was: a ruthless dictator, who understood only evil and unjust spectacles. But what made the Varden better still escaped his grasp; for they would still collect tax and to the average citizen this made them no different to Galbatorix; the change in sovereignty would not restore the dragons or riders; nothing would change but a minor detail written for the scribes and historians to pore over in the times to come and for the bards to sing of when this age came to an end: but that was no reason for war.

_Was it?_

The needling thoughts sent Eragon spiralling in unease; his legs developed a deep seated ache and his jointed clicked with unresolved tension; each worry a adventurous taunt. Shifting, he braced the lower portion of his legs against the repellent bark of the oak tree he was leaning against; as he stood, a vertigo of green and red assaulted his vision, their sapping wonder and colourful curiosity strengthening with each beat of his heart; he was left swaying ungracefully in the thin winter breeze, which, with its modest summons, soon dissolved his intangible shields and cures. _It _fought at its torturous bonds, eager to mingle with stray thoughts and emotions, willing to manipulate.

_I... don't know... not anymore._

Another, arrogant and irrational voice pierced his confusion, like the tip of razor blades through grinning chainmail. Smooth and controlled producing a sweet melody of the trickster, each left to linger far longer than it should.

_What of Roran? Has not Galbatorix proved his sinful ways?_

It asked, a tint of mocking espionage converging upon its core; it was not to be ignored: Eragon stumbled across the stem of roots it positioned for his fall; stinging strikes of Alder leaves, each with keen sharpness to their features, attacked his person, each a pinprick across the primal sea of pain; he pushed forward, away from the oak and towards to ever growing darkness of the campsite, wise fires and whispering songs soon fading as the elves made to repose. The voice held merit.

_Roran was murdered. I do have a reason... yet what can a king do to rebellious enemies? He had no choice but to retaliate; and the Varden had ushered in this bloody war._

Reason and desire and never been the closest of friends and now they only existed to trouble Eragon with their _supposed _logic. Pulsating nightmares and fears gripped Eragon as each death, of his hands, played itself though his drooping eyes, the anxious faces and afflicted grimaces as blade and arrow bit into their flash and absorbed their life force through bitter steel; the aromatic scent of clogging blood tickled his nostrils, like an unwelcome draft of chills, as he reminisced on sword dances and falling corpses; the familiar taste of adrenaline as it shot through his body, prepared for imminent death and injury; magic tinged his vision as unnatural flames and lights of forest green reaped souls. He snapped.

_**Fast moving images and controlled snarls pierced Eragon's confusion...**_

_The red of blood saturated its way through the upper levels of heaven, as a crimson blade, quenched of misery, collapsed from a weak grip, its owner stumbled into the hard call of the dirt and lay panting as another blade hued with the flavour of summer skies entered the scene; flames caressed its ice thin edge, each a small pilgrim across its length. The sneer coating the fallen mans lips intensified as he looked on his grave admission, awaiting his judgement. A fine mist of inanimate wisps slowly surrounded the two, it held for a strange moment, momentarily shielding the men from onlookers and intruders, before ebbing to the corners like ocean waves. Both now possessed rigid postures and unhealthy tension._

"_What now?" the unarmed man asked, his voice deathly quiet and utterly reserved, "Are you going to kill me like this? Hah, you do not possess the will; you always were a child, too soft to survive in a world such as this," he spat feebly at the other mans feet, individual sprays diverging from the rest over the course of their hopeless flight._

_The standing man replied with defiant silence, his protruding blade settling into an uncharacteristic calm; the soothing fire dying with times sails. He looked on with grim acceptance lacing his eyes, a hint of remorse and pity flashing across his features with the quickness of thieves. Yet no response was forthcoming. It only served to anger his unarmed foe._

"_Answer me!" he roared, the heavy pull of his chest displaying raging emotions and mimicked thoughts; he was quick to slow his racing breathing, "I can see it in your eyes you know," he narrowed his own into suspicious slits, representing the vipers wit, "How much you hate me; I can see the fire of hatred, you do not fool me."_

_He lapsed into confident quiet, yet the only riposte he received was the descending blade. A shatter ran across the frame of time as the standing man wrenched his blade free and stood taller, proud sadness clinging with lovers embrace._

"_No you are wrong: I feel nothing for you." _

**SOOO. What did you think. Let me know. Thanks. Yeah I know this was probably one of my shortest chaps.**


	18. Chapter 18

**Yeah a new chap. College is stopping me from uploading. Anyway an M&T POV; you know how I suck with these, but this is important. So tell me what you'll think. Did not proof read.**

Winter was a strange time: for it delivered both fortitude and famine; it was a slaver that chained its victims in affectionate vices but vices nonetheless, each despondent morning brought with it new chills from its shawls and each night brought bitter respite. It was such a frivolous season: its intentions clouded upon the balance of sin and blessing. The thawing ice that clung to treasonous bark in clear shards of frigid swords, only served to add a new layer to nature's complexity; the bracing breeze with its tendrils of thought and gaseous form ignited bracing fires at men's roots, fortifying weak hearts and freezing the beating lay of life. And as Murtagh reclined, comfortably, against the gripping, rough, hide of glazed wood; his thoughts started to wander, aimlessly, without conviction or purpose, darting with the speed of lazing arrows from one topic to another, encompassing both grim winter and coiled war: such resonance formed a splintering confusion that irritated and pained Murtagh with each thud of his brains functions; resulting in a despised headache, that refused his attempts at taming it.

He and Thorn had managed to escape the prison that was Uru'baen and with it the malevolent greed of the Empire's lords and ladies; Galbatorix had been unusually good-willed with their predicament: allowing them free roam for several leagues around Uru'baen. Neither had questioned his benevolence. Neither cared. It was a time for peace and relaxation and the whispering glory of nature was the sweetest of mothers.

Darkness was rapidly gathering at the crux of the world, mixing like the artists vision, a slowly descending shroud of ignorance, blotting the sun like some unhealthy plague. Thorn stirred slightly, his ruby scales catching the now fading light in a bloody thirsty display.

"_Would you not agree," _her whispered, each word unsure and tilted, "_That the night is a curious beast?"_

His voice was wounded and seemed to beg for reconciliation. A light frown forged Murtagh's face as he pondered a response, trying to control the sharp stab of remorse at words spoken.

"_Perhaps," _he finally replied, keeping a cautious lock on emotions, "_I have never really wondered."_

Thorn seemed pleased at his words, for he gave a reassuring grunt before curling into a large, crimson, ball and muted his speech as to continue in his endeavour of the heavens; leaving Murtagh to flounder in his own insecurities as he thought miracle cures for unknown maladies.

The city was now alight with human creation, the mortal den of delight that sprouted with the night soon took swing; whores and scoundrels would soon purge the streets of honesty, as they made to make profits and vice, The general ruckus of beer and mead soon drowning all else in its boisterous proclaims. Many a murder would extend under the white of the palace walls this night and every night to come.

A familiar, tormented, face flashed across Murtagh's mood.

_That man..._

Shaking his head as to clear it of any rebellious tendencies, Murtagh returned his wistful gaze back to the stars, each a glinting jewel in the vast expanse of space, each a carefully tendered hope. Yet the darkness always conquered, even the heavens, the balance between light and dark was heavily in favour of the dark, it was a ravenous beast, engulfing stars whole and tainting innocent dreams.

The ache of his shoulder woke him to the world. Eragon's blade had left some powerful residue to coat the wound and even after healing a deep pain persisted. He had been told it was permanent.

_Only more pain for me to carry._

Thoughts turning bitter in an instant, Murtagh allowed a brief reminisce, torn images of his mother penetrated his barriers followed closely by the scowling face of Morzan, the red of his blade washing his face in a sheen of diabolical sneer; Morzan was true evil, not Galbatorix. A shade could not compare with Morzan's acts.

_And Eragon actually has the nerve to compare me to him._

An uncontrollable rage, directed at his brother, grew to replace the misery. Anger at the wound and at the pain, anger at the coldness and bluff shoulders. His _brother_ did not understand him; Eragon would never have survived at Uru'baen: he was soft, like women; bowing down and licking the elves boots was the reach of his deed. His threshold. Never able to care for his own well being; dependent on others.

_Galbatorix would break him within the day; he does not possess the fortitude to survive._

But anger had always been a creation of ignorance. Murtagh could not control his emotions, not his anger or his favour... They were still brothers, no?

Focus came with the intrusion of Thorns, steeled, tail, as it rushed through the air, attacking Murtagh with a storm of wind and dust. The same old quiet settled through the clearing, filtering through the leafless branches of rickety trees and dead brushes. Murtagh shook as biting cold attached itself to his bones, spreading like a forest fire. Forsaking himself to an uncomfortable fate, Murtagh lost his gaze into the riveting sway of their small fire, each licking flame resembling the impatient tongue of a dragon; time seemed to slow, its hand moulding themselves into their desires. The simple beauty of the inferno drew Murtagh into an impassive state and the caressing nature of its dance soothed Murtagh's unruly emotions and dulled his eyelids; Thorn had already surrendered to sleep and the gentle hum of his breathing was a delicious temptation to Murtagh's sensitive hearing, heightened as it was from Galbatorix's mysterious experiments. Nothing of importance passed through Murtagh as he lowered himself across the lower, scalding, bark of his lifeless companion. His beating heart soon slowed in its purpose and the silence stretched. The stars above twinkled mischievously, each an undisclosed secret.

_I could live here. Hidden from the world. Me and Thorn._

He smiled. A true, joyful smile, one lost in the future. A future not promised...

Murtagh closed his eyes.

...

...

...

...

...

"_Murtagh!" _he shot awake, his senses lighting: Galbatorix.

"_Yes...?" _he replied, uncertain.

Excitement passed from Galbatorix, uncontrolled and contagious.

"_I need you here. The prisoner has spoken: he agrees!"_

The resilient one.

His eyes widening in disbelief, Murtagh said, "_I come."_

_The man..._

**Hope you enjoyed. It might be somewhat unrealistic for someone to survive Galby this long, but I have an excuse. So let me know what you think.**


	19. Chapter 19

**Yeah here's another chapter. Sorry for how short it is. PLEASE let me know if Arya seems OOC, but do take into account the previous chapters. Leave a review telling me what you think. Bad or Good. Hope you enjoy. Did not proof read. Point out any mistakes.**

"_Wake child, you have slept long enough."_

The voice burst through the fretful images pooling through Eragon's memories, each word a decibel to remembrance; it was strangely intimate as it reverberated through the confine of his secrets, spreading like a virulent poison, bringing warmth, but one with tamed fierceness: like the roar of a caged bear. Eragon recognized the melancholic cords of the other, supported as he was by the voice of boulders meeting and the pride of an illustrious warrior, with armour of shivering gold.

Glaedr.

Again he sounded his demand, growing stronger, only to fade, slowly, with his last words; before he was, once again, rendered silent: a buckled blade.

Eragon's own troubled thoughts replenished the emptiness; foreboding shadows and wisps of intelligence gleamed through his conscious with paranormal clarity, they refused his summons and instead continued their manic circuits, each bringing a goblet of drowsiness. Their hold on him was treacherous, surreal chains bound him from the light, suppressing emotions till feeling receded as a factor. With unconquerable haste they showered him in corrosive dark, dissolving his features, his _being, _precisely destroying his stain, replacing him_._ _It _rose as he sank, clawing its way through years of humanity, severing ties of blood and brother. Inching towards the stronghold, with its impeccable walls and precipitous frame; even its empowering presence quailed beneath the rising tide of change, its heated stone chilling with pained mumbles, incoherent of their own choice.

Eragon felt himself slipping, his birth being erased, his existence tampered, foiled, as coils upon coils of the snakes grasp tightened in unison, in an effort to vanquish Eragon. He wanted to scream, but neither tongue nor throat adhered to his calls, silent misery racked his brain: he had failed, he was nothing.

_I am not worthy._

Silence of movement followed his words; the assault halted, then fled, as if to escape an enemy of boundless power; their rapidly declining images bombarded Eragon with the blistering heat of red, the waves calming with the exit of the last. Wary of mental attack, Eragon drew into himself, searching for identity, before allowing his curious thoughts free roam, he unfurled the petals of his person and suffused into his cavern of mind, brushing past the stench of death, he enveloped his old haunts with a burning embrace. Content surged through him; he sighed.

...

...

...

His eyes opened.

A white softness cushioned his form, moulding around his space like molten iron: white hot. The surroundings divulged their trade with each flutter of his eyelids: the royal red of an elfish tent greeted him, their planes free of an wrinkles; beside his cot lay a humble desk, carved from willing oak, its surface calm with masterful workmanship, the bracing scent of pine petered from the air. A lone petal, its skin full and blooming, lay upon the desk, tenderly kissing the rejuvenating wood. A morning glory. Confusion seeped into Eragon as he beheld the dark purple jewel. Eyes narrowing of their own accord, he wondered at its presence, an air of importance graced the edges of the flower.

_Why is it important?_

He urged to remember the reason, yet his mind was dulled and it was slow in joining clues. A shallow inkling of an answer began to form. Dotted letter and honeyed hands filled his visions, a name started to materialise. The dawn of understanding.

He sensed her. She was close.

_Arya!_

Eyes darted around the little tent, perceiving each change in lighting, a fanatic need to _see_ gripped Eragon; she was here. The blurring room passed under his scrutiny with the speed of lightning, detail forgotten. He cared only for one vista.

And, suddenly, he froze. There she was: leaning lightly against the opening of his tent, as if uncertain of approaching, clad in a detailed and majestic tunic of red that, for once, displayed her famed wealth as a princess; he could faintly descry the tiny diamonds studding her neckline and the threads of pure gold that wove the fabric together. It was utterly magnificent, so was she. She refused to hint movement; standing as a statue free of emotion and life

Neither spoke. Groaning quietly, Eragon lifted his head in an effort to meet her eyes, only for the rays of morn to blind his sight in an enthralling display of power, lighting Arya's outline in an awing glow of gold, transforming her into a goddess; mysterious and wise. Squinting Eragon traced his way upwards, towards her face; desperate... he skidded to a halt, shocked: her eyes were cold to behold, each emerald orb glinting impassively, death hung from her pupils. Her, characteristic, knowing gaze crowned her stare and the hated mask of concealment shrouded her thoughts from view. Eragon grit his teeth in frustration, both from their last encounter and from the current predicament. He refused to begin their conversation. She mirrored his thoughts. Instead choosing to grace the tent pole with her slight weight and glower at Eragon with a heavy reluctance. She seemed torn, her posture rigid and her mouth upturned in a strained grimace. Her eyes fell to her entwined hands; where she cradled a blossom of a morning glory, Eragon followed her contemplation, again wondering at the flower at his bedside.

_A gift? Something else?_

The wait soon became traitorous and Eragon felt his patience start to slip. Eragon wanted to curse this woman, yet his heart cried at the crime: refusing to lower her to his eyes. Even she seemed uncomfortable now, her long, slender, fingers had begun a dazing dance across the ridges of the flower she was holding and her demeanour began to shrink under his heavy glare. Conclusion came with the razor deliverance of an icy knife that penetrated Eragon's heart with the bite of Durza's rage. Death stirred at his pain. Arya methodically turned away from him, her movements seeming choreographed, effortless, conserving energy; and, without a backwards glance, removed herself from his tent. No word was spoken; no explanation, no worry.

Eragon watched her leave, he jaw tense and his eyes unforgiving.

He hated this woman...

...Yet he loved her.

**So let me know what you thought. Thanks for reading. Again sorry for the tiny chapter, but I'm not used to writing a lot.**


	20. Chapter 20

**Sorry about the delay. Exams are starting and it's a pain. I've been reading some MxA fics (mainly the Midnight Masque, but also Diamond cut Diamond) and the whole concept is growing on me, I don't like it that much, but it is interesting. But I think to Eragon MxA would be the last straw. Lol. Murtagh would become his vision of the devil. Lol. I added a new character here. His main purpose is to portray what I think; in this chapter he makes fun of Arya for me. Don't worry, he is a minor character. This chapter feels rough and well... as if it was written by a three year old, I hope it isn't too bad. Read and Review. Please point out any mistakes.**

_It isn't about how hard you can hit, but how hard you can get hit and keep moving forward, that's how winning is done! – _**I like very much.**

Belatona was drawing ever closer, the airy dread Eragon had first associated with loss now erupted as if sensing death and destruction. With the approaching ramparts came an end to Saphira's confusion, the same fire of living ignited within her and each day brought a lighter mood; yet, as if to balance the scales, Arya withdrew further and further, she was hardly ever seen and her foothold upon the world seemed to give way to an ethereal existence, the normally tawny skin binding her adopted a ghostly paleness that frightened Eragon: death seemed to be making true its claims.

And then there was Murtagh... he had been seen, balancing upon the tip of the sunset, his form frail against the giddy lights of the sky; Thorn had swallowed the glitter of the stars, causing him to grow to the eye: a blazing red fireball, announcing his defiance to the elves and their friends. The pair had not approached any closer, preferring to gaze knowingly from their raised pedestals... preferring to mount Eragon's troubles with added burdens. It soon became the norm, the_ traitors_ would appear to grace the same quilt of night and day, seeking someone, something; many questioned Galbatorix's motives, yet the only conclusion sought was one of added wariness and security, or as Islanzadi had described it.

"_Unfortunate."_

Eragon had smiled through the days as he recalled the simple but accurate description of current events. However extended bouts of happiness were a forbidden desire and worldly worries were quick to evaporate the blasphemous pool of content, like poisons, inking their path through the once pure water, choking and throttling the innocence that remained. Eragon could feel the fractures rippling through the rebel forces: Nasuada and Islanzadi drew into suspicious circles, neither trusting the other, made worse by the fact that they resorted to pushing their thoughts onto those around them.

It was in these troubled time that Eragon was acquainted to the only other human amongst the elves: Anith. It had been a pleasant surprise to discover one of his one kind within the mysterious society of the elves, whose verbal trickery and shallow emotions would soon drive any man to insanity. Their friendship had started at a tentative step, with both holding doubts of the other; on Eragon's part it consisted of questions of history and future.

"About me?" Anith had exclaimed at Eragon's piqued curiosity. A tight, razor edge came to glint from the corner of his left eye: rabid and hungry. His hand followed suit, tensing slowly upon the pommel of the plain, somewhat tarnished, sword at his waist.

"Well yes, what the hell are you doing in with these annoyingly polite elves," Eragon asked, ignoring Anith's reactions, he kept his voice low in fear of passing warriors; but a trace of word in winters wind is all the elves needed.

Anith, clearly bothered at the sudden interest placed on him, was slow to reply, thinking over each word as a cook does a meal.

"Well there isn't much to tell; I was born twenty some years ago in the tiny human settlement of Dardish, doubt many have heard of it, it was near enough to Osilon," the past tense summoned a grim foreboding within Eragon, he could taste where this tale was headed, "Around my third year the village was attacked..."

"Urgals," Eragon stated darkly.

To his shock, Anith shook his head at him, "Not Urgals... spirits... scores of them; I was told later that they blotted out the sun in their numbers," he halted, a light frown appeared, "I was lucky... I guess... the only survivor."

"How...?" Eragon implored, a sickly fascination dawning.

"An elf: Ranithan and a few of his kin found me amongst the debris, they rescued me and Ranithan took me into his care, named me after his family. It was so strange growing amongst the elves, there was only one other child and he was better than me at everything because of his enhanced prowess," he stopped to laugh before continuing, "Once got into a fight with him, got him with a good one to begin with... ended up with a broken jaw and nose; the kid was real nice to me afterwards. The elves taught me their histories, their magic and their ways of war and now here I am, fighting a man of the shadows. Never thought I would meet the famed rider... ha."

The conclusion of the tale found both Eragon and Anith sitting side by side, in quiet meditation, gazing wistfully to the enigmatic canvas of the heavens; a shooting star lit their view with exaggerated wonder, glaring across mans vision in a godly light show, burning its image on the back of their retinas. Another question announced itself to Eragon.

"Are you married?"

Sighing, the man looked to his clasped hands, "I'm not a virgin if you're asking that... had quite a few flings with more than one elf maiden... nothing serious... I sometimes regret it. But no, never married; I was brought up by elves, somewhat rougher in my behaviour but marriage is still a strange custom... and you? Are you married?"

Eragon turned away with pain rolling though his heart. Images of Arya filled his head. Sharing was such a gift.

"No... Have you heard of Arya?"

Sitting upright, with a glint of interest in his eyes, Anith said, "The princess," before Eragon could intervene, he added, "Isn't she just so egotistic? Bloody woman, give me five minutes and a bed and I'll soon mend her ways," he let out a short barking laugh, that burned through Eragon, filling him with a deep, uncontrollable rage, "How many men do you suppose she's bedding?"

Standing abruptly, Eragon turned a fierce scowl onto the man sitting at his feet. The depth of his anger amazed him, yet the truth of the man's words was undiminished. His anger only soared.

_Was she already with a man? Was she hiding the truth from him?_ _Arya wouldn't do that... would she?_

Their last encounter forced its way to reminisce. The look in her eyes. The silence.

"I believe you hold the princess in too low a regard," he said loudly, before turning to leave.

The low whisper of words stopped him dead, cold words sheered against his defences, "Or perhaps you hold her in too high of a regard."

**Hope you enjoyed.**


	21. Chapter 21

**This chapters a bit early; I'm supposed to be "revising" (how I loathe the word) but I thought "fuck that" and here I am. Death rears his head again and we delve into the murky depths of Eragon's character. I was reading "The Shining" a few days back - by Stephen King - and it is a great read. Oh and here's a scene on my mind; it is to do with ExA and if they ever have a kid (in IC). Here is what I mean, their daughter was just born:**

Arya lay with her back to the bed, holding their daughter, tenderly in her hands. Eragon watched contently from the bedside chair.

"She's beautiful," Arya states to no one in particular.

Eragon, switching his gaze from mother to daughter, gave a small grin before replying, "Well of course she is, just like me."

Arya snorts softly.

"You hear that little _**(insert daughters name here**__)_ you're beautiful just like you father**."**

**End scene. Yeah I know very roughly written, but I just thought it up on the spot. Now if CP makes Eragon say that in an Inheritance prologue than Eragon will redeem himself as a man to me. Anyway hope you enjoy the chapter. Please review and tell me the pros and the cons. Thanks**

Swords locked and scraped with bitter sweet trepidation as man faced the demonic din of battle once again. Above it all the pregnant clouds of fate poured their souls, capturing the slick of war with each tear drop, each an ended tale, each an inflamed desire, taking wing with kindled arrows, biting through the haven that was told to be found in tiny ringlets of burnished steel; charred and molested forms lay writhing upon deaths floor, precious pearls of blood percolating from their broken bodies and nonexistent souls. Comprehension came with silent heartbeats as Eragon trod - delusional - over the crippled howls of a small child; Belatona's spires hung, aloof, two cobwebs of stars, blind to the torment at their steeples. Confused, Eragon staggered to a halt amongst the continuous accosting of cessation occurring between elf and man. Images, not his own, shone though the multitude of voices at attendance: disappearing scenery, as Saphira raged across the battlefield, a tempest of solidified hatred, heavy grunts of flames devoured men and tailored claws snipped at the cords of vivacity; it was such an enlightening image, so true, so raw... so distracting, so, so distracting... a mirage of hardened scales and darkened eyes inaugurated beneath open eye lids.

"_Set me free."_

_It _whispered and it was a temptation of gold and silver, a symphony of lies, yet a symphony nonetheless, nebulous and beautiful. Eragon could feel his will slipping, a delightful strand of burdens lifting. The cursed gems of _pain _unravelling under the comforting voice of the other; he could see it, the light and it glowered with accepting embraces, stripping away worry, the duty, leaving him naked, safe, encapsulated in a cocoon of rapture. Temptation was ever a vice.

"_I can assist, I can be the end, give me your trust."_

He was close now, he sensed the shifting of power, oh so slow, oh so glorious... oh so slow. It finally immersed: the truth. It embedded into his flesh bringing not hurt but irritating logic, obnoxious reality. He panicked.

"_Saphira... What am I doing?"_

He tore and screamed at the chains, pushed his entity onto the fiend, painting it with despondent flourishes, quick and strong, he strained against the beast, each striving for mastery of an empty vessel. Effort was never enough... not when one faced the infinite sovereignty of a true immortal being. Inch by acrid inch he felt his wretched sanity lurching, tipped over a chasm of hellish despair.

"_No... No... No..._"

Fate had not favoured her hand yet. It appointed a saviour, a whistling blow to his shoulder, the instant flow of pain, the blatant crack of whimpering bone, the sharp clarity of intruding splinters and the oiled taste of spiked steel. Eyes wide open; magic streaming from his eyes, Eragon surged to substantive life as the steel retreated; he felt death ebbing away, its desire prolonged; leaving peace... peace...

It was a miracle when the mace intended for his cranium was blocked by an elegant, elven rapier, its forgery a testimony to patience; it was a miracle when functionality returned to Eragon with the casual renovation of his shoulder, a miracle when Brisingr cleaved a diabolical sting through the Empires ranks. A miracle he was even alive. But miracles were never thorough enough for the mortal mans standard and as Eragon resumed his dutiful fray the standard was declining; the hints of war metal sparked a ferocious intensity within Eragon, weaving and cleaving over the massed incarnation of humanity, all lead to the slaughter; combating unnatural strength and speed matched with a inhumane air of detachment. The synonymous screeches of dismembered men soon detained other senses, as they lay quivering in the cold mud, their entrails erupting like gluttonous worms surrounded by soups of blood. Wrenching his head to the side, Eragon methodically dispatched another battalion of men, denting their thick plates with viscous precision as Brisingr cavorted from victim to victim. All in the name of control, in the name, in the hope of repressing his own demons. What a coward he was. When the centuries epics noted his deeds, they wouldn't relive the terror he delivered, or the blood he spilt, they wouldn't mention the evil that coursed through him, how it controlled him, how he revelled in the death and the misery. No. For he was ever the mocked saint, supposedly pure of any corruption an angel sent from the gods, not a black hearted scoundrel, for there were enough of them.

"_But they are all wrong. I am as much a monstrosity as those we war with."_

The omnipotent swing of a barbaric axe wielded by a brute of a man passed harmlessly over his head, as he leaned back, swaying in the punishing humidity of battle, cries for help stilling tongues; straightening, Eragon proceeded to dig his sword into the man's skull, pushing through delicate tendrils of flesh: the soldier stiffened and his mouth fell open in a wordless howl as he fell to his knees, withdrawing Brisingr with a wet, low, sound Eragon turned the brain ridden blade onto the next hapless man of the Empire, ready to progress the ensanguined portrait, eager to escape his guilt through the oppressing heat of conflict, the torn present, where right was wrong and wrong was right. Destruction was simple. The aftermath was for the gods to know.

Eager as he was Eragon was not foolish; he knew who awaited them at the keep and as he tore apart all who stood to witness his finesse, he thought out the confrontation to come: it would come to swords, of that he was sure; even the conclusion of the confrontation was near assured... the substance was an enigma... the blind hand of seers was turned and fate was unlikely to intervene a second time. It was one thing to kill dearly sweet men, but the foe he perceived was no easy challenge to be overcome at Eragon's leisure. Defeat, even at these odds was an all too likely perception.

"_Oh well, fortune favours the bold." _

Raising a hollow roar Eragon dove into the den of death. His aims clear, his sword sharp.

"_They are all wrong. Wrong."_

**So how was it? Point out any mistakes.**


	22. Important

Right to start with: I profoundly apologize for the extensive delay. Truth is I've been questioning the tone of my story. I've realized one thing: this is a young adult's series (which is to say older children). And thus it is simply portrayed (by CP). However my spin on his work has become overly complex both in how it is written (a lot of people have complained on how hard the writing is to understand sometimes) and the psychological state of mind that I was planning on developing with some of the main character; some truly hideous characteristics that I was planning to incorporate. It felt as if I was tainting the purity of the cycle, if you know what I mean and destroying some well loved character (like the time Eragon kills a child in my story). This isn't to say that I am going to stop writing; I mean I already have the next two chapters written out. I am, however, taking some time to mould the future tone of this story before I continue to update. I may just start a new, easier to understand (so less poetic) with more childlike (fairy type) morals and ethics instead. Again sorry for the delay. On top of that college is a pain in the ass when it comes to updating fics.


	23. Chapter 23

**Again sorry for the late update. I've decided to continue. Before this chapter begins I have two things to say. One: I have cut down on the poetry and prose and hope it is easier to understand now. Secondly: I would like to ask for the forgiveness of Eragon and Roran fans. You shall see... I hope you enjoy and please point out any errors. **

Eragon was panting with the effort of breaching another magically reinforced door, with its complex web of patterned wood that, like its peers, served only to further frustrate Eragon's exuberant physical state and mental balance. He had left Saphira - due to her bulk - and his irksome elven plethora of guards far behind, much to their darkened scowls and stinging words. Which, truthfully, had only served to alienate them from Eragon's thoughts and strained patience. Mastering his stray wisps of thought, Eragon focused his torrential attention onto the opposing door across the dilapidated antechamber. Reason dictated it to be the last of its kind: supplemented by the steel supports and the deep bronze branding off the royal insignia that clasped the prestigious door like a benevolent leech. Time hurried its wings and Eragon, burdened by the burden of its demands strolled, awkwardly, towards the remaining barrier. Each step a whirlwind of cacophony outliving the thick silence that curved the smooth recesses and exalted ceiling. His heart set a hammering expectation. Rushing to fulfil a lifetime of labour.

He knew.

He knew what awaited him; he understood the least of his worries.

_It can only worsen._

He was perhaps halfway across the shadowed alcove when death halted his steps: releasing a snap of loathed memories... hated encounters... dreadful deeds... malevolent stains on his image... innocent murder.

_Stop... please._

His fists clenched, perhaps thinking they could frighten the past with half-hearted threats of violence.

_Violence... violence... violence._

Convulsing at the torturous truth, Eragon tore is protected avenue to the present, to find himself confronted with the cracked and soiled invention of the floor. Drawing dragging breaths, Eragon discovered his purpose and, with a shake of his head, continued on his way to the encounter with his demons. The door was still the same... his mentality... he wasn't sure anymore.

The door was unlocked, surprisingly so. It seemed to be expecting a visitor. It was heavy too; covered in a fine sheet of dust that recorded his dancing fingertips as they caressed the harsh surface in their quest to open. The creak of dead wood over cold, grated, iron produced an ear splitting symphony, playing on the despondent cords of battle. It resonated clearly and strongly, through Eragon's range of emotions and lit raging fires that seemed to hinder his limbs with their melting strength.

First glances uncovered little but the natural blanket of oppressing dark, then, as if by magic, three murky forms began to materialise; Eragon's sweat coated hand tightened around Brisingr's polished pommel, a lone tear drop of sweat slipped over the hilt and dripped to the floor with a emphasised thud. His insecurities and fears chambered within its infinite purity. Murtagh came into focus first; his face set in grim lines, un-armoured **(is that even a phrase?)**.Zar'roc held glinting in his left hand, poised to deliver death and injury, yet no show of aggression was forth coming. The second man stood somewhat behind Murtagh: he was tall, with well groomed features and a full head of silky black hair, each cropping out like spindly legs, he wore hypnotizing black robes, with gold threaded sewing; his face was ageless, not a crease or wrinkle blemishing his outlook, eyes of liquid blue shone with knowledge and curiosity as they beheld Eragon; no inherent cruelty showed, instead the man supported an aura of utmost calm and... and perhaps misery. This was Galbatorix. Eragon knew. How he knew was still a mystery. The hate he had nurtured seemed to fall into a coma of infeasible depth. Behind him stood the last man: with hunched shoulders and long, dirty hair, he struck a striking image, worlds apart from the other two. That was when he looked up.

The world seemed to slow to an agonizing crawl, as Eragon recoiled in horror. This man was broken, broken and tired, his eyes had aged many a years, but Eragon recognized him in an instant.

"No..." he murmured, more to himself than another; weak legs gave in beneath him and he collapsed onto the unforgiving floor; his head ringing with pain.

"No..."

He was supposed to be dead. Dead. Yet he was alive... he was breathing... Roran was alive. Alive and in the hands of the enemy.

Galbatorix was quick to cut through Eragon's denial, he spoke in a quiet voice, frank and true.

"I see you two are already acquainted; I have waited long for this day Shadeslayer, though I had hoped we might meet under friendlier terms. It is an honour rider," he gave a small bow, whether mocking or not was lost on Eragon. He had eyes only for his cousin.

"How...?"

Eager to resume his monologue, Galbatorix answered, "That is of little consequence; Roran here is on a very important visit, to carry through a very important play."

Roran stepped forward as to mark the end of Galbatorix's words; he slowly drew his famed hammer, its rough surface displaying deadly intention, before speaking crisp, clear words.

"Fight me Eragon."

He charged.

Perhaps it was luck, perhaps instinct that allowed Eragon to stand and raise Brisingr, before the blur of muscle and steel caved in his skull. Roran was relentless in his attack, roaring and swinging with untamed anger, each strike attempting to kill. But he was no elf. Eragon blocked and dodged every push and each successful defiance brought an inferno of rage to the surface, bubbling and howling. Perhaps it was death, perhaps it wasn't. The outcome was the same either way.

Roran lay gasping, in a pool of his own precious blood, Brisingr embedded, deep into his chest, its jewelled elegance unable to hide the depravity of the situation. Everything pure and righteous died within Eragon, his vision glazed over as his ever naive conscious tried to incorporate a different end. As his numb memories fought to expel the intrusion of new information. From the fringes of his sight Eragon caught half spoke words coming from the king.

"Amazing, look, look Murtagh."

He cared not. The world tipped into hells cauldron.

Roran whispered tiny and gasping words to himself, "Katrina... our child..."

The light vanished. Listless eyes rolled, hitting the back of Roran's head.

He was dead.

**So, what did you think? Can you please forget the way Galby talked to Oromis in Brisingr? You know the stereotypical villain. I feel as if Cp ruined Galby there and I have taken some liberties with him.**


	24. Umm Ah?

**Some spoilers (maybe).**

**Sorry about the delay, again. The next one might come after Inheritance has released. I just have a lot of studying to do. Oh and for people who don't know Inheritance has been leaked online (though it is very hard to find). Readers in Africa actually got it on Wednesday and some WalMart stores screwed up and were distributing copies yesterday. I heard Roran survives the first chapter (booo!). Also there is something about snail shades, I think. For all you die hard ExA fans: some guy on one blog I checked (who claimed to have got an early copy) said that E&A remain friends and do not hook up; I'm not too sure about this given CP's writing style, I'm expecting a cliché romantic ending; but he may surprise us. Murtagh seems to have become a commodity in Inheritance. One chapter: What is Man (or something like that) seems really interesting. Now I'm not too sure about any of this info, but it may be true.**


End file.
